Diablo II: Priest of the Dead
by godsavant
Summary: ...And should the demon rise again, he shall walk amongst the mortals, and condemn their ignorance in a baptism of blood that hath never come before...' On the brink of PG13, for extreme gore, nudity, dark themes, and occasional swearing.
1. Priest of the Dead

**Hi, it's me again; after the almost review-less fiasco my last Diablo fiction turned out to be, I've done some serious thinking about my writing style, and decided that in order to attract readers, I was going to have to do something more gothic and dark, yet more humorous, as well. In the end, I ended up trying the strategy I used with my (more-successful) StarCraft fan fiction: Dig up an old story that I wrote about a year before, make some dramatic changes, and lay it onto paper. **

**This is the written version of a Diablo comic that I started years ago, and I think it's pretty good. But then again, that's not for me to decide. Again, both praise and flames are asked for, if this story is to be more successful than its predecessor. **

** Sigh Well, here I go again: I do not own Diablo, Blizzard, or any of its related categories. Diablo is a copyright of Blizzard Entertainment, yada yada yada…**

**Here's the first line of the comic version:**

'**The only immortals are the dead.'**

**Without further ado, I present…**

**-Prologue-**

The only immortals are the dead.

That was the simple truth. Only after death could one rest forever, unhindered by the petty struggles and pointless strife's that were reserved for humans. Only then, could they relieve themselves of the bonds of hate, greed, death and sadness that was the formula for sentience. Alchemists had used it to concoct formulas that, they hoped, would lead them in the direction to the secrets of everlasting life. Generals had used it to elevate the morale of their troops before historic battles, in which millions of lives were lost. It had been concreted as a rule of life.

As was custom, someone was to break that rule.

Mortals, prompted into action by the ideals of immortality, delved deep in the dark arts, studying death and its countless ways of claiming its victims. This action was greatly shunned by the church, but it had long since been proven that the preaching of a zealous priest could not halt the curiosity of man. Soon, the mages had gone beyond the concepts of traditional magics, and instead found themselves fascinated with the teachings of death. Abandoning their original purpose of immortality, the mages broke rank with their sorcerer brethren, forming their own religion as the Priesthood of Rathma, otherwise known as the necromancers.

Mortals, by nature, were startled by the sudden rise of the new religion, but did little to stop it. They hoped that it would soon fade away, as many others had done in history. Sadly, they were disappointed. The priests of Rathma adopted their own government, language, and culture, expanding their reputation across the lands. The peoples of Sanctuary soon became aware of the necromancer's potential, and cast them from society, exiling them to the harshest environments in the South.

With them, the society cast away the truth of immortality:

_The only immortals are the dead._

™**Diablo II: Priest of the Dead**

**-1-**

It rained.

Djinyu stood over his fallen opponent, a smug look worming its way across his coarse features, as he gazed upon the blood that coated the dagger a deep, dark red. The blood dripped from the edge of the weapon, forming in pools on the soft dirt. The necromancer fondled the dagger, then looked back at his victim.

Around him, the other necromancers of the High Tribes stood, grimly watching the spectacle. Their hoods were raised, covering the majority if their faces. They retained an eerie silence, so quiet as the dead that they so worshipped and cherished.

As quiet as death, some would say.

The young man on the ground raised his head and glared at Djinyu, a look of pure hatred etched upon his face. His shaggy white hair fell upon his face, though it was wet and stained with blood and rain. Slowly, he spat forth one last word from his dry lips.

"Traitor…"

Djinyu gazed down upon the young man knelt before him with great amusement. "You've no one to blame but yourself for this fate, Faustus. It was your mistake to have trusted me." He said, gazing back at the reddened dagger he held in his hand. "Then again, I did not expect a twenty-year-old such as yourself to have guessed my deception; you put shame on the name of necromancer."

Faustus collapsed onto the wet ground, his weakened arms no longer sufficient enough to support his weight. Rainwater showered his dying body, as he feebly tried to rise. Tears began to flow from his eyes, as he understood the true depth of Djinyu's betrayal.

Djinyu smiled at the weakness of his foe. "You weak, squirming dog; I'd be doing a the gods a favor by smiting you. In the name of the holy sanctity: your time has come!" He said overly dramatically; Faustus coughed up a spurt of pale blood. Djinyu swiftly plunged the dagger into the body of the young necromancer.

Amid the thunder and lightning of the rain-filled sky, a scream of pure agony split the air.

† † †

'…_Faustus._' it said.

Faustus was nearly sedated, his mind numbed. _'Huh?'_

'…_You have been betrayed by the heavens, and robbed of your life.'_

Faustus snorted_. 'Well, I kind of figured that out already.' _

'…_Yet, I offer you the vengeance you so desire; The power to annihilate those who had deceived you. The power to make both angel and monster quiver at the sound of your name.'_

Faustus was half-asleep_. 'Wh-what are you talking about?'_

'…_Will you embrace it?'_

His mind was nearly dead, as he struggled to maintain consciousness

There was a silence.

A _dead_ silence.

'_Yes…yes, I will.'_

At last, his world turned black.

† † †

**Well, how did I do? I have to say, I was planning on a much more sophisticated chapter to start out this series, but I feel it worked out pretty well. I'll continue to work on this and other chapters. As for Heroes Stand Alone, you can bet that I'll have it back up soon, only with a dramatically different (and hopefully, better) storyline, so stay tuned! **

**I certainly hope that this will turn out better than the other fiction, but I do not want this to become simply a novelized game run-through, so expect to see some characters that are not in the game. I've been busy with my crappy job, but I'll find some spare time, and get the next chapter up in, at most, a week and a half, if I get at least two reviews, I promise. **

'**Zhang', over and out.**


	2. The Witch Hunter

™**Diablo II: Priest of the Dead**

†

**-2-**

Two years later… 

The wind blew from the south.

Several brown, withered leaves sailed through the air, carried along by the dry gusts of the Anaroch deserts. Below, an endless series of deep canyons stretched as far as the eye could see. Sand and dirt blew in whirlwinds across the barren landscape, as the burning sun beat down upon the chasms below. Several sand leaper lizards scrabbled about the edges of the gullies, searching for prey.

From the pitted canyon ways, a small pillar of smoke rose. The ashes drifted high into the air, blown away by the sudden gusts of wind. However thin, the smoke was blindingly evident in hot desert valleys. A flock of giant vultures circled overhead, eyeing the smoke with great interest. To them, smoke meant death, which meant food.

Below, in the gulch, a town burned.

The remnants of the small village were aflame, though the fire had done little damage, compared to the destruction wrought upon the town itself.

Caravans had been turned over, their contents spilled and shattered upon the streets. Numerous shops and warehouses were broken and collapsed on the roadsides, reduced to smoldering heaps of charred debris that drew ashes into the air.

But, if one were to have witnessed the scene, the first thing they would have noticed were the bodies.

Countless corpses lay, sprawled and mutilated on the dirt streets. Though dead, their bloodless faces were contorted into looks of sheer horror, uttering a final, silent scream before their death. Dried blood was painted intricately upon the charred walls of the burning houses and caravans, like a vile, hellish mosaic to glorify the slaughter of the quiet hamlet. It was pooled on the ground, and thirstily seeped in by the dry, cracked ground. The corpses were dehydrated, having been robbed of any moisture by the merciless desert heat.

Amid the piles of rubble and rotting carcasses, a lone man stood.

He wore a thin black shirt under a long duster coat, billowing freely to the north; a ratty stetson hat hanging on his head. His figure was gaunt, with shoulders that were sagged rather exaggeratedly. A pair of bloodstained heavy boots were donned, thumping against the dry desert ground.

The man's eyes darted back and forth in the shadows of the ruined village, as if every nook and cranny held a voracious pit demon. His boots echoed against the hardened dirt, the only sound in the air save for the crackling of the fires. His breath was soft, as if trying to conceal his presence.

A soft, feminine voice spoke behind him. "So, here at last, hm? I was beginning to wonder if you got lost along the way." The voice was that of a young woman.

The man stopped in his tracks, but did not turn around. "I've come to kill you, Tira." He said, in a grim, dry voice.

She snorted. "Oh, really? About time, Faustus." She said, as she stepped out of the shadows of a burning tavern.

The woman was about the age of twenty-two, though her mature features and incredibly lithe figure made her look several years younger. Her skin was soft and perfect, and she had the face of an angel, with shining crimson eyes, and rosy cheeks that took at least one year from her looks. Her black and red hair cascaded down to her legs and fell across her eyes like silk, making her all the more attractive.

But beneath the beauty of her figure, Faustus would not be deceived. He had known this woman long enough to acknowledge her true identity.

The vampire smiled at Faustus, her eyes scanning him up and down. "Well, I see you've changed quite a bit since we last met. For one, you seem to be more…depressing. Post-mortem side effects, perhaps?"

Faustus did not return her warm greeting. His face remained set in an expression of total grimness. "Save me the crap, whore. You _know_ you're no match for me."

Tira gave a tired sigh. "You are _no fun_ at all." She said, casting him a look of pity. "Oh, well. I guess I'll have to change that."

She spread her arms wide, and began chanting. Her fingertips began to glow, as she cast her spell.

"…Dinañomus Mortial Qorrimó!"

Immediately, the spell began to take effect. The corpses of the town's inhabitants shuddered, and began to rise. Faustus shook his head at the gruesome spectacle, as the putrid carcasses pulled themselves up, their sunken eye sockets fixed on him. Several of the reanimated cadavers collapsed where they stood, their decayed leg joints unable to carry their weight.

The zombies moved with unbelievably sluggish speed, stumbling forward with their dismembered joints. Faustus, though fully aware of their presence, made no effort to avoid the approaching dangers or draw his dagger. His coat billowed in the wind, and his eyes were closed, as if deep in concentration.

When he opened them again, they were blood red.

Tira's eyes widened, and she slowly started to back away from Faustus, as if he carried some sort of lethal disease. Her eyes went wide in terror, as Faustus slowly smiled. However she tried, she could not tear her eyes away from those of the necromancer. She wanted to scream, but her voice was gone. Only her memories of Faustus informed her of what was going to happen next.

The corpses were almost near him now, their hands outstretched, yearning for his living flesh. Faustus gave a leering grin, baring his teeth.

"I _love_ this part." He said, in a voice that was not his own. Slowly, he reached into his jacket…and pulled forth a wicked scythe twice the size of his own body. Tira gaped, trying to understand he could have fit a twenty-foot weapon inside his coat, or how a man of such lean stature could wield a giant scythe with such ease.

In an instant, Faustus vanished.

In the next moment, the crazed necromancer was darting nimbly through the mass of decayed monsters, slashing and cutting viciously with his huge weapon. He moved with lightning speed, slashing and moving on, as if the scythe weighed nothing. He gave no pause, for dodging the wrecked, burning buildings; he hacked right through them, sending large flaming chunks of debris across the ground, mixing in with the pieces of putrid corpses. By the second, more corpses returned to their original state, albeit in little, tiny pieces. Faustus continued his whirling dance of death, slicing and hacking with deadly precision. The scythe's blade cut cleanly through the zombies, like it was cutting through thin air. The pale blood of the undead rained down upon the ravaged town.

Faustus vanished again, and instantly reappeared, airborne, above Tira's head. Marveling at the necromancer's incredible abilities, the vampire gritted her teeth, and crossed her arms on her head, shielding herself as the necromancer brought down the scythe fiercely upon her.

The blade impacted…and rung soundly. Faustus paused for a second to contemplate what had happened.

The vampire had _stopped_ the blade with her _bare flesh_.

Tira struggled to keep the scythe at bay, considering that it was inches away from her face. Her head and body were slick with sweat, and her brow was furrowed in anger. Faustus made no comment, but instead flashed a razor-toothed grin. Under his breath, Tira could hear him chanting.

"…_Kaime gres Xúshka Demeon!_"

With a razor-toothed grin, he smashed his glowing fist into Tira's belly. She cried out in surprise, as one thousand volts of mana exploded in front of her face. For one agonizing moment, dirt, ashes, and blood shredded her clothes.

In the next, Faustus stood over her, scythe over his shoulder. "I see you've forgotten the extent of my powers, Tira."

Blood leaked from the side of her mouth, as she struggled to speak. "N-no! Don't…"

Faustus grinned menacingly. "I'll bet that's what all the townspeople said before you sent them to Hell."

Tira's eyes widened in terror. "No! Please!"

The necromancer "Sorry, baby. But like I said…" Faustus raised his scythe high in the air, his eyes glowing. "…I came to _kill_ you."

† † †

There was a scream.

The vultures swooped down from overhead.


	3. The Bandit Queen

**Alright, it's been a while since I visited this site. How y'all doin'? I know, I know, this isn't actually considered an update, but I figured that Kassandra wouldn't join Faustus in his quest if he had just killed all of her raiders for no reason, so I came up with a different, and hopefully equally good, alternate chapter; Besides, the appearance of Ghül in this revision will help me push this story along. I hope you like it!  
**

™**Diablo II: Priest of the Dead**

†

**-3-**

The sun was setting in the east, casting red light and dark shadows upon the landscape. The valleys of the desert were hidden in the glow, the sand and dirt of the desert dunes covering it perfectly in the shade of the jagged cliffs that dotted the harsh wastelands that was the land of Aranoch.

Several packs of wild sand leapers scampered through the sandy pits, searching for a good place to lie and catch the last bleeding rays of sunlight; and hopefully, their evening meal. The niches of the desert proved to be quite good for hiding, as was proven by the piles of bleached, white bones that lay randomly throughout the landscape, a necropolis of forgotten victims of the wasteland. The evening sun bathed the desert canyons in an array of light and shadow. To any well-to-do aristocrat, the scene may have been admiringly beautiful, a perfect setting for an abstract painting or a piece of sculpture.

To Johann Faustus III, it was simply another sorrowful day to the life of pain and grief that he had been damned to live.

Faustus stopped for a moment, his grey eyes gazing out at the stars that were slowly starting to reveal themselves, with the regression of the desert sun. For once, the cold, hard eyes of the necromancer were instead filled with a feeling of relative calmness.

'_Calm…'_ he thought to himself. '_That's not something you usually see.'_

He gazed at the stars for one moment longer, and then averted his gaze from the azure shades of the evening skies, back to the bland dunes of Aranoch.

A lone man wandered through the endless desert, lost within the desert almost as much as he was lost within himself…

…Almost…

† † †

"Oh, _hell,_ it looks like another one of them westerners, boss."

Peter turned from his watch at the side of a large dune, lowering his spyglass and turning to his 'boss', who was, surprisingly, female.

The woman was about the age of twenty, having a head of brown hair, and a slender body that would have put younger women in envy. She had skin that was perfectly tanned from years under the sun, and wore a red bandanna and a velvet cloth at her waist, which flowed behind her like a tail. Her brown tank top and long, padded brown pants enhanced her status as the beautiful but formidable Kassandra El'Roûke, the infamous Bandit Queen. The bandit queen wore no footwear; simply leather ribbons strapped around ankles and wrists. Yet, she showed little sign of discomfort walking on the cooling sand of the desert.

"Give me that." She said, as she snatched the spyglass from the hands of her servant. Peter bowed respectfully and retreated back into the group of twenty-seven raiders; being the second general of the entire brigade, the raiders gave him a wide berth. At her side, Kalos waited patiently, hefting his giant axe with vigor; his muscle-bound frame was more than intimidating. She lifted the glass to her eye, adjusting the lenses, and trying, with great difficulty, to discern any life in the rolling hills and deep sands of the desert. Yet, she slowly made out a small moving shape in the near distance; it seemed to be rolling along, pulled by two large black horses.

"It's a merchant caravan." She said to her band of marauders, not taking her eyes off the approaching convoy. The horses snorted and coughed, blinking to keep the dirt from their eyes. Kassandra slowly crept behind a dune, and drew a hand dagger from her waist.

"There's only one caravan; lead them into the gully, and we'll trap them from there." She whispered. The raiders nodded, and crawled slowly towards the perimeter of the large canyon with practiced stealth. Kassandra lay still, listening to the steady beating of hoofs on the hard sand and rock.

With practiced efficiency, she began delivering orders to her band of delinquent thieves. They prowled slowly along the sands, slipping into every pit and hollow to avoid detection by their intended victim. The bandit queen, satisfied, stowed away behind a dune to watch the ensuing robbery.

The raiders were almost near the caravan, knives and swords at the ready. The cavalcade seemed not to have noticed their presence, as it was still rumbling through the sands.

As she had planned, the caravan squeaked and shambled down the rough pathway, down into the canyon path. Instantly, she drew a flare from her belt, and flicked it into the air. It gave a loud bang, and the caravan slowly halted; the horses neighed and scraped their hooves on the stone walk, disturbed by the abrupt sound.

Instantly, several raiders slid silently from hiding, forming a human barricade in front of the caravan. Kassandra waited a few moments, then leapt from the cliff, and landed stealthily on all fours, with the swiftness and agility of a feline. She strode over to the cart, as her raiders surrounded the caravan, waiting intently for the merchant within to investigate the disturbance.

"HALT!" she shouted to the inside of the caravan. "I am Kassandra El-roüke, the Queen of Bandits! Abandon all items of value you carry in your cargo, and you may yet escape from this desert alive!"

There was a silence, as Kassandra waited patiently for a response.

After a few seconds, the curtains parted, and a tall, aristocratic man emerged from within. He was a grown man, robed in an expensive black tunic and cloak, and wearing slick trousers and shiny black dress shoes. He wore a large ten-gallon hat upon his head, and his face was white, the color of a corpse.1

"Ah, yes. What business is it that you want, gentlemen?"

"Alright, bucko, give us your name first."

The man smiled. "I am called Ghül."2

Kassandra shrugged. "What we want is to…ahem…_inspect_ your cargo." She said, a hint of sarcasm in her voice. Kalos silently snickered, while Peter maintained his usual reserved demeanor.

The man bowed. "_Certainly,_ madam. Search my caravan, if you so wish." He said in a sincere manner.

Kassandra rolled her eyes. "Whatever. C'mon, boys." She said, as she started towards the back of the caravan. Kalos tailed behind her, while the rest kept a watchful eye on the aristocrat, who did not seem to be at all unnerved by the fact that he was being robbed.

_His loss,_ she thought. _Sucker._

With her dagger, she tore through the back canvas of the cart, and peered inside. Within the caravan, there was a stench of rotten meat and blood, like a butcher shop. In the darkness, Kassandra could only make out several large boxes, stacked neatly atop one another. She tore further into the backcloth cover, and peered within once more.

Her blood froze, and she stumbled back from the cart.

"Boss? What's wrong?" Kalos asked. When she simply pointed a trembling hand at the caravan, he stomped over to the caravan, and violently tore off the cloth, revealing the contents to the light of day.

Within were numerous coffins, stained with blood.

"What the fuck?" he yelled in exasperation. "What's _this_ shit for?"

"Ah. I am a…priest of the dead, you might say." Ghül said simply.

"A necromancer!" Kassandra leapt to her feet. "What's with the coffins? I mean, what do you carry in there? Ashes? Bones?"

There was a long pause.

Ghül smiled. "Well, if you really must know…"

He snapped his thin fingers. Instantly, the coffins exploded in a shower of wooden splinters, sending many bewildered raiders onto their backs. From the cluttered remains of the coffins, several hunched, shadowed shapes took form, lumbering and heavy. As the dust cleared, what Kassandra saw was burned into her mind forever.

The figures had broad, gaunt shoulders made by overgrown bones that bulged from its body and random angles; bleached, translucent flesh was stretched tautly across its gross frame, ending at a bony death's-head skull. They had no hair, but rather, stitches that lined their scalp and extended all the way to their backs. Their eyes were nonexistent; a gored organ was set where the eyes and brain would have been, beating and undulating as if it were…alive. Their mouths were lipless and sewn shut, and their ears had been sliced off and stitched together. Across their bodies, horrible blackened insignias and runes were branded into their rotted skin.

In the midst of the valley, a mass of huge, lumbering monstrosities crowded around their master:

Ghül.

Kassandra stared in horror, as the aristocrat bent down and petted each of the undead abominations in turn, as if they were his children. The raiders had drawn their weapons, disgusted by the unliving horrors that stood before them.

"Now, you see what I have contained." Ghül said to the band of marauders. Kassandra growled and drew her whip, snapping it loudly.

"Kill him!" she shouted out loud.

Ghül turned, and smiled wickedly. "I wouldn't recommend that."

Kalos broke from the group, wielding his large axe. "Ah, shut up, ya fucking pansy! Nobody talks back to boss!" he shouted, as he charged at the mass of undead with furor.

Instantly, one of the horrors stepped outwards to protect its master. Kalos neared, his heavy girth shaking the ground with every step. He gave a vicious roar as he brought the gigantic axe down onto the mutated zombie.

There was a clang, as the horror brought up a clawed hand and caught the ax_e_ by the blade.

The raider stared in bewilderment. "What the-"

In the next instant, the beast pulled the axe from the Kalos' hands and grabbed him by the neck, lifting him high into the air. He gasped and choked as the rotted and closed around his lungs. He kicked and grappled violently at the arm, struggling to release its stone grip. The horror stared up silently at Kalos with blind white eyes, absorbing every detail of the struggling marauder in his grip.

To Kassandra's horror, the horror turned its gaze towards the giant axe in its other hand. "No!" Kassandra cried; she was too frozen with terror to move. Peter sprang into action, lunging at the zombified demon with his long javelin. Several other of the band ran in as well, eager to help their lieutenant in battle.

Kassandra finally broke from her trance, and drew out her wicked knife with an expert thrust, before charging rushing at the zombie. Instantly, another abomination stepped in to intercept her; with silent fury and precision, she sliced off its head. Blood splattered onto her clothes, but she didn't care.

She was no longer Kassandra El'Roûke.

She was the legendary Bandit Queen.

The zombie crumpled to its knees, spewing blood. Kassandra kicked its back, launching herself at the other horror. As she spiraled under the monster, she brought up her switchblade in fleeting motion, and sliced into the zombie's arm. The blade bit into the fleshy skin, and the beast gave a loud, inhuman roar, before roughly releasing Kalos, and clutched its bleeding arm. The burly raider coughed and gasped, lying limply on the ground.

The injured horror stumbled back, then roared again and brought up its axe…and was instantly wickedly impaled by a javelin. The weapon tore into its ribs, and burst from the other side. Peter, satisfied with the result, pulled the weapon free; the zombie sprawled onto the sand.

"There we go." He said calmly. Several other horrors descended upon him.

Kalos picked himself up, and was met with the claws of another horror. Robbed of his axe, he slugged the zombie across the face with a meaty fist, and saw blood, saliva, and teeth go flying.

Standing precariously atop his caravan, Ghül laughed. "How entertaining. Now, let's kick it up a notch."

He snapped his fingers again. The abominations clustered around him immediately broke away and charged into the fray. Seeing the battled heaten, the raiders did, as well. Kassandra fiercely sliced at a particularly large horror. She kicked it in the chest, and thrust her blade into its face.

The blade bent, and shattered.

Kassandra managed a gasp before she was sent flying roughly into the sand by a rotted fist; she was Kassandra El'Roûke once again. She groaned, the sun blinding her eyes. Suddenly, the light was eclipsed by a massive shadow. The giant horror stood over her, and roared, before bringing its bloody claw down viciously upon her.

Kassandra closed her eyes and screamed.

In the next moment, the horror toppled over backwards, missing a head and both arms. It bled profusely, unable to roar or flail about. Kassandra felt herself being picked up gingerly from the ground; the sounds of battle still raged about them.

But as she listened, they faded into the distance…and only darkness remained.

1 – He's basically dressed in an orchestral conductor suit.

2 – Pronounced 'Gool' or 'Ghoul'.


	4. Lament of the Priest

The first literary quote of this chapter is borrowed from Jonathan Edwards' sermon 'Sinners in the hands of an Angry God.'

™**Diablo II: Priest of the Dead**

†

**-4-**

Kassandra dreamed.

_She cried._

"_Mommy!" Kassandra sobbed as she stumbled again on the dirt. _

_She saw her mother rushing up the path to help her tiny child. A basket bounced up and down on her elbow; Kassandra's cries immediately turned to laughter, as her mother helped her to her feet and gently wiped away her tears._

_Her mother smiled as she stared down at her; her hazel hair fell in thin locks around her eyes. The light of spring sunshine illuminated her features. She was like an angel; her face seemed so distant to her now, but she let herself be absorbed in her memories. Kassandra giggled, and pointed towards a caravan that was coming down the worn dirt road; the sun bounced off its fine silver wheels and great stallions with their rich red harnesses. They smiled at it, waved at it, and settled down again._

"_Mommy." She said to her mother._

"_Yes?" she answered, cradling her daughter on her lap._

"_What kind of carriage is that?" Kassandra asked. _

_Her mother paused. The wind carried the long strands of silky hair across her cheeks. Kassandra shivered slightly, and her mother gathered her up closer. _

"_Ayearse…" she mumbled finally._

"_What?"_

"_A hearse." Her mother said, and looked away._

_No more was said of it. Kassandra curled herself up in her mother's bosom, and closed her eyes. She could feel her heartbeat against her cheek; it soothed her. It let her know that her angel was still alive. The wind blew the spring blossoms, as the songbirds sang their sad melody to the air of the passing hearse, disappearing down the old dirt road… _

† † †

_'The god that holds you over the pit of hell, much as one holds a spider, or some loathsome insect over the fire, abhors you, and is dreadfully provoked; his wrath towards you burns like fire; he looks upon you as worthy of nothing else, but to be cast into the fire; he is of purer eyes than to bear to have you in his sight; you are ten thousand times more abominable in his eyes, than the most hateful venomous serpent is in ours…'_

Faustus hesitated, and slowly read the transcript again. He silently sat at a rotting table, his eyes scanning the words of the tome, but drawing little meaning from them.

'…_You are ten thousand times more abominable in his eyes, than the most hateful venomous serpent is in ours…'_

With a sigh of disgust, he shut the book, and glanced at the small cot at his side. There, in the dim candlelight, a young girl slept, her hair falling over her soft features and long eyelashes. Her body was lightly bandaged; red stains defiled her beautiful features. A thin blanket covered her, though she still shivered slightly in the cold of the night.

'_She's good-looking,'_ he thought to himself. _'But…was that the reason I saved her?'_

He stared at the girl for the longest of times, as the candle flared and flickered in the night winds, a dancing sprite shrouded in darkness. From outside the open window, behind the billowing curtains, the moon shined brightly in the dark sky, like a huge, glowing eye that gazed down dogmatically at the pitiful struggles of the mortal world.

In the silence of the hours of darkness, he heard a voice; dry, malicious, and hauntingly familiar.

Two years earlier… 

'…_Faustus._' it said.

Faustus was nearly sedated, his mind numbed. _'Huh?'_

'…_You have been betrayed by the heavens, and robbed of your life.'_

Faustus snorted_. 'Well, I kind of figured that out already.' _

'…_Yet, I offer you the vengeance you so desire. The power to annihilate those who had deceived you. The power to make both angel and monster quiver at the sound of your name.'_

Faustus was half-asleep_. 'Wh-what are you talking about?'_

'…_Will you embrace it?'_

His mind was nearly dead, as he struggled to maintain consciousness

There was as silence.

'_Yes…yes, I will.'_

At last, his world turned black.

Even in the endless darkness of death, the voice continued to speak to him, distant and barely audible.

'…_Rise, then, Faustus…adopt the power that is yours…'_

His mind was blank, as his memories began to fade. Who was he? Why was he dead?

'_Who **are** you?' _Faustus questioned.

There was a slight pause, as if the voice was searching within itself for its own identity.

'…_Some may call me the Lord of Hatred…'_ it said. _'…I am known as Mephistopheles.'_

Faustus shivered at the name. '_What do you want of me?'_

There was a dry cackle. _'…Why, I simply want to help you exact your revenge against those who had murdered you.'_

Faustus blinked, struggling to remain conscious. '_**Who** murdered me?_'

'…_The archangels…'_

Faustus jolted. _'What? No! It was Djinyu…Djinyu and his four Prophets!'_

'…_Listen to me Faustus…the archangels betrayed you…murdered you…believe me…'_ the voice continued, soft and soothing. Faustus desperately tried to drown it out, but already, his mind was coming under the influence of the voice's words.

'…_Seek out the archangels…kill them, every last one…only then may your tortured soul be avenged…'_

The cryptic words had come over him. He would listen to the voice; it would not lie to him.

It was his friend.

The archangels had killed him…

…_and he would seek vengeance…_

As the last memory crossed his mind, a sudden sound stirred him from his trance; his hand instinctively darted for his sheathed scalpel. Faustus cautiously turned towards the back of the room, and saw the girl rise slowly in her head, a hand put to her face. She blinked wearily, trying to discern vague shapes in the dim light.

"Ah, the sleeping beauty awakens." Faustus said, a grin on his face.

Kassandra instantly turned, squinting in the darkness. Her eyes widened, and her lips struggled to utter words.

"W…what…what am I…doing here?" she demanded.

The necromancer tapped the side of his head lightly, and nodded. "Think, and maybe you'll remember."

"What?" Kassandra spat.

The necromancer said nothing. He turned back to his book and pretended to read.

Kassandra considered attempting to strangle the necromancer, considered her scarcity of clothes, and reconsidered. She managed a low growl, before trying to recall what relations she had with this strange man. It did not take long to remember, though Kassandra immediately regretted it.

Blood…horrors…coffins…Ghül… 

"Hey! _Look_ at me when I'm talking to you!" Kassandra shouted.

Faustus turned. "Yes?"

"Who are you? Where am I? _Where are my clothes_?" she screamed, waving her arms in the air.

Faustus nodded slowly. "One at a time."

Kassandra sighed impatiently.

The necromancer paused for a second. "You are in the desert city of Lut Gohlein; I am Johann Faustus III, and your clothes are on the stool next to your bed."

Kassandra considered questioning him further, considered her lack of clothes again, and decided to at least get dressed before she requested more information. She examined the bloodied bandages, poked and pressed at a few, and winced.

"And your weapons are on the dresser near the window." Faustus said, still absorbed in his book.

Kassandra immediately stopped, the gears in her head whirring. The bandit queen slowly inched her way towards the dresser, picking up her dagger by the hilt.

"By the way, you might want to think twice before you decide to attack me."

Faustus said absently.

She growled again, and clipped the blade to her belt.

"What am I doing here?" she asked impatiently.

Faustus turned, setting down the book. "I brought you here, so that Ghül's minions wouldn't consume you alive."

"But…what about Peter and Kalos, and all the other guys?"

"They died." Faustus said, not holding back or offering sympathy. Kassandra stood rigid for a moment, and sank onto the cot, burying her face into her hands.

"But…how? We…we were beating them!"

Faustus laughed. "Ghül is far more than he appears; he wasn't even using twenty percent of his power when he fought you."

Kassandra jumped. "You mean-"

"Yes. Ghül's minions had the capability of at least twice your band of raiders." Faustus said. "Considering that he's a Prophet, I would expect no less."

Slowly, Faustus rose from his seat, and picked up his limp, tattered overcoat from the chair. Kassandra strode over to the necromancer, her hand readily poised to extract her weapon at any moment. The necromancer casually donned his coat and wide fedora, before heading towards the door.

"Now that you're awake, I can finally leave the city."

"What!" Kassandra shouted. "What about me? You have to leave me with _something_!"

Faustus nodded affirmatively, but said nothing. He reached into his pocket, and drew out a handful of gold coins, and held them out to her.

With one swift motion, Kassandra knocked the hands away, spilling the coins along the floor.

"I don't need your charity!" she shouted in his face.

Faustus did not flinch. "It is the best that I can give. I suggest you take what you can get, and start a new life in Lut Gohlein."

Kassandra growled frustratingly. "No! I would rather die than…" she stopped in mid-sentence, sighed deeply, then slumped down onto the bed, burying her head in her hands. "Look, Faustus…I can't do that. I can't stand being an average person, doing whatever someone says! That's why I became a bandit in the first place I want to be something more…more powerful…more intelligent...I can't bear to live like other people; the life is so _boring."_

Faustus looked at her silently, and sat down on the chair, his back turned.

"_Never_ say that again, Kassandra." He said softly, though his voice was as cold as ice. "For your own good. "

Kassandra drew back slowly. There was a long silence, with only Faustus' silent breathing, and Kassandra's light gasps. The candle burned as brightly as ever.

Faustus slowly made his way to the clothing rack, donning his hat over his eyes. He started briskly for the door. "I must leave."

"No, wait!" Kassandra called.

Faustus halted silently near the door, but did not turn around.

"Can…can I come…with you?" Kassandra asked; her voice was practically a low whisper. She was obviously unaccustomed to talking in an inferior tone.

Faustus paused for a moment. Finally, he cocked his head back slightly.

"That is for you to decide."

With that cryptic note, Faustus left the room; Kassandra heard his footsteps down the hall.

Slowly, she slid from the bed, bent over, and picked up a few coins from the floor, pocketing them; she strode to the table, blew out the candle. For one last moment, she looked past the fluttering blinds, at the shining moon in the sky, and the sparkling stars.

Memories flooded her mind.

_The man glared up at her, his eyes rolled into the back of his head. Faint red blotches welled and flooded the corners of his mouth, leaking onto the snow; his tongue was pressed in a silent scream, fixated on her. Snowflakes fell peacefully onto his face, melting slowly._

_He was dead._

_Kassandra stumbled backwards in the thick sheet of snow; her heart beat furiously in her chest under the torn gown she wore. She slowly stared down at the reddened knife in her hand; its tiny blade glowed innocently in the faint light, bathed in red. _

"_No…"_

_The blood on the knife trickled down her quivering fingers and mixed in with her own, infusing her, marking a victim._

"_No!" _

_Her hand jolted, and she hurled the knife to the ground; it clattered to the winter snow beside the dead man's cold stare. There was silence, a hellish pause that pierced the veil of her enfeebled mind. She began to feel nauseous; Kassandra stumbled away from corpse, backing roughly into a wall to support her frail body. The blood dripped onto the icy ground, staining the snow a rosy shade of red. Her mind raced. Kassandra shook her head furiously, bolting away from the scene. She could feel the man's eyes watching her as she fled, tormenting her even as it lay dead in the gutter. She felt it, a piercing stare even colder than the freezing gales that whipped around her exposed body._

_She ran. A feverish madness passed over her, as terror overwhelmed her. Tears of fright brought themselves to her eyes; she tore through the streets, the silent howls of the night on her heels. The cold winter wind chilled her to the bone through her thin gown, blowing snowflakes into her face and freezing the blood on her hands. Her tears fell from her eyes; they dripped onto the snow, melting it. The blood froze as t flew into the air, and shattered as it hit the exposed grounds._

_Kassandra found a bitter taste on her tongue, as she slipped on the cold ice; she faltered and stumbled onto the ground. Her thin knees scraped against the ground; he growled and pulled herself up, staggering a few more feet on her bleeding legs, before collapsing onto the ground on her knees. There she knelt, weeping, shivering violently, her hands buried in the thick frost. Her gown swept in the wind; she lay in the empty town square, snowflakes falling onto her shoulders. She suddenly felt like a little girl again, alone and helpless. She was ready to feel her mother's comforting touch on her arm, to look up and see her beautiful face. _

_Silence greeted her. No one came to help her to her feet. No one cared._

_She looked back one last time down the frost-covered avenue, hoping to see her mother rushing down the street among the snowflakes, a smile on her face._

_But there was only a hearse, silently making its evening rounds. _

† † †

Outside the window of the now-darkened room, the wind howls…

…The voices whisper…

…As a haunted necromancer and a young bandit queen pursue their destinies…

† Part I: End † 

- - - - - - - -

1 – Mephisto's voice. No duh, considering he sold his soul to him.

Backstage

Well, how am I doing? 

**Some people may say that this chapter was boring, and that nothing happened. Well, I beg differ. Please do not confuse 'nothing happened' with 'there was no mindless violence'. I'm just trying to develop the story a little, rather than Faustus going psycho and mass murdering everybody in every chapter; which, as is evident, seems to be the case in these last few chapters. Never fear, there will be more than enough bloodshed by the end of the story. But for now, please be merciful with your criticisms, and DON'T STOP REVIEWING! **

**HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO SAY THIS: TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT TO HAPPEN IN THE STORY! A lot of people say that this story has potential, but you have you help me bring it out! Especially now, considering that I'm making stuff up at the moment…**

Watch for Priest of the Dead, Part II, coming very soon to the Diablo section of   



	5. The Demon, the Beauty, and the Beast

**So, did my last chapter move you? No? Not even a little bit? Still no?**

**Good! I would hate to mess up the ending.**

**What's up, everybody? It's your classic tragic-story author, 'Zhang'. I'm back with the beginning of Part II of my series, Priest of the Dead, about an undead melee-mancer. When we left off, Faustus and Kassandra had both gone their separate ways; but, as fate decides, their destinies may be linked closer than they think…**

Welcome to back to the nightmare… 

**------------------------------------------**

™**Diablo II: Priest of the Dead**

†

**-5-**

'_My shadow's the only one that walks beside me.'_

'_My shallow heart's the only thing that's beating.'_

'_Sometimes I wish someone out there will find me.'_

'_'Til then, I walk alone…'_

-Green Day, _Boulevard of Broken Dreams_

† † †

Kassandra shivered in the cold of the night, and wrapped her tattered traveling cloak a bit tighter around herself. The wind howled through the branches, like a creature lurking in the night. But Kassandra was not afraid; she welcomed it. Whenever the moon rose into the dark sky, memories arose with it; memories of the horrifying monstrosities that had robbed her of her only friends, her only family; memories of the haunted necromancer who had put a start to all this madness.

Her sorrow immediately sparked into a feral rage.

'_Ghül, Faustus…'_ she thought to herself. _'When we meet again…I will kill you all.'_

Kassandra stared up at the moon for the millionth time, and her heart lightened.

She stopped. The primal instincts of the Bandit Queen began to emerge.

She could sense something…something amidst the dunes…

She slowly rose to her feet, steadying herself on a withered tree. Her body was thin and frail from lack of food, and her eyes were lined and tired. A sheathed blade hung loosely on her torn heavy belt.

Kassandra El'Roûke wandered into the night.

† † †

Through the web of dark branches and thick valleys, a high plateau rose from the ground, a huge, flat peak that stood amidst the chains of mountains, nearly hidden from view.

Upon the plateau, rows upon rows of crudely made crosses were driven into the ground, each one a grave belonging to a person, long dead and forgotten; their bones had laid in the obscure valley for years.

Dust and sand were blown across the landscape, a billowing gust that swept the desert dunes. As the silence reigned within the vast emptiness of the desert necropolis, the soft sound of footsteps emerged, steady and calm.

Across the smooth plain, a man strode through the clouds of dust, a hollow specter; his long overcoat billowing in the harsh gusts of wind, his heavy boots thumping against the dirt. His shoulders were sagged, as if they carried a burden beyond human understanding or comprehension.

The truth was, he did.

Faustus stopped at the edge of the gravesite, and silently peered into the rows of primitive headstones; from across the graveyard, a set of darkened, ghostly eyes stared right back. From the dark clouds of sand, a slim man stepped out, wispy tendrils of the dust wrapping around his wiry frame. He was dressed in a fine suit of a wealthy inner-city aristocrat, but his frame and features told of a being far more sinister than met the eye; his skin was slightly wrinkled and cut, and his face was thin, his cheekbones jutting from his features. There was a small cut on his left cheek, which was crudely stitched together. A small traveler's cap covered his features, though his cold, hollow eyes still prevailed over the shadows that masked his face.

"Faustus." The man said; his eyes locked onto the necromancer.

Faustus grinned. "Yes."

"You have been dead for five years**1**." Ghül stated flatly, his tone showing no sign of surprise at the sight of the deceased necromancer.

Faustus snorted. "Being a Prophet of Rathma, you should know more than anyone that the only immortals are the dead."

Ghül nodded. His cane was set calmly at his side. "Leave now, Faustus; it is not your place to meddle in the Great Conflict."

Faustus smirked. "Death is not one that allies with neither Heaven nor Hell."

Ghül grinned, showing rows of yellowed teeth. "You may be revived, but you're still the faint idiot you were in life." He said, as he snapped his fingers casually. Within moments, a mass of darkened, colossal figures became visible in the shadows and clouds.

Faustus did not hesitate; in an instant, he was sprinting across the cemetery grounds, a bloodied battle scythe poised in his grip. His ferocity began to emerge in his eyes, as a distant flame rekindled itself, inflaming with mounting bloodlust. A faint voice in his heart whispered maliciously, sending blinding rage through his mind.

'…Slay him, Faustus. Slay all who dare oppose your righteous redemption…' it said. '…Show this slime the powers of your newfound glory, but know that he is but the first of many…'

Faustus sped forward with demonic stealth, as his eyes turned a bright shade of red. His veins pulsed with uncontrollable desire for destruction, though it was hidden under a mask of calculated solitude. His weapon began pulsing with raw mana.

A huge zombie burst forth from the smoke, and pounced to block Faustus' path. Faustus grunted as he brought the scythe in a savage upwards slash; the zombie fell to the ground in two clean halves, sliced down the middle. Several more horrors emerged to protect their master.

Faustus twirled the scythe in his hand, ignoring its heaviness. Faustus swung again, cutting deep into another rotting abomination. He flipped the weapon over in his grip, cutting and hacking viciously at the sight of Ghül's damned creations; blackened blood sprayed the desert air. The enraged necromancer launched himself into the air, straight at Ghül; the aristocrat smiled calmly as Faustus rammed the blade at his head.

Then, he was no longer there.

'What?' Faustus thought confusedly.

A wave of horrors lunged at him, their rotting hands outstretched, yearning for his sweet blood and bitter flesh. Faustus spun around, a maniacal grin spreading across his face.

"Damn, you're ugly." Faustus mused, as he thrust the end of the scythe into the zombie's skull. The horror recoiled, springing back up, minus half of its face; blood and brains leaked uncontrollably from the wound.

"That's better."

Faustus gave no pause, as two new zombies charged at him in a mindless frenzy from his backside; he met them at full power, flipping in midair, tearing the blade through the frail bodies of the revived abominations. He landed with feline precision, as his coat billowed in the wind.

An entire torrent of zombies met him head-on, swinging and screeching; Faustus met each one with equal fury, zipping through the narrow spaces between the horrors, while bringing them down with his vicious battle scythe, like wheat falling to the thresher. Heads, arms, and decayed organs flew in the wake of his maddened bloodlust.

Faustus skidded to a stop at the opposite end of the flock of undead, his scythe painted a thick, rich coat of red. Faustus was breathing heavily, as sweat rolled down his brow; another squad of horrors broke from the flock, and was immediately greeted by the merciless blade of Faustus' wicked reaper, which slowly faded from his hand; he winced.

"Out of mana, Faustus? I wouldn't be surprised; you used far more mana than was necessary. Maintaining that giant weapon must cost quite some energy." Ghül's voice floated eerily from the air.

Faustus maintained a sneer. "I like overkill; I still have more than enough mana to kill you."

From the front of the group of undead, the slim shape of Ghül materialized, a smug grin upon his face. He leaned on his cane casually, and motioned to the seemingly endless army of abominations that milled about aimlessly throughout the graveyard.

"Now, do you see, Faustus? Watch how they pursue you to their certain deaths; watch them as they relentlessly serve the will of the apocalyptic sacrament of which they base their damned existence. They know you're here, Faustus; and they know why."

Faustus felt a trickle of blood down his chin, which he immediately wiped away. "Sacrament? Apocalyptic? Ooh, big words. Unfortunately, I don't know what the hell you're talking about; all I know is…" he said, spitting into the sand; with lightning motion, he drew out a curved blade from his belt. "…I'm here to kill you!"

Another torrent of zombies surged at him; Faustus blinked in the high winds, mentally picking and choosing his target. As the first undead corpse made a frenzied lunged for him, he nimbly brought the dagger across its throat, carving a tight circle in the zombie's neck. The head flew off promptly, but the headless zombie continued to flail wildly about, groping blindly for its victim; Faustus proceeded to sever its waving arm in a quick downward slice. He brought the blade around, plunging the tip into another zombie; already, the mass of undead was beginning to close in around him. Faustus gave a roar as he hacked wildly at the grueling horde, but the cadavers continued to come; the ground was littered with broken and diced limbs, bloody and decayed. From a distance, Ghül watched the gruesome spectacle, a grin upon his face.

Faustus could already feel the cold, bony fingers of the endless undead clutching onto him, tearing holes in his coat. They grasped at him, hungry for blood. He flailed back and forth, shaking off several clammy zombies. Faustus was being drowned in the mass of undead, as he cut and slashed at random targets. Ghül slowly stepped forward, his thin boots crunching on the cracked ground. Faustus buried his blade into the face of a zombie, and brought it downwards, violently tearing the corpse in half.

"Dyamques!" he shouted, as he cut into the chest of another putrid carcass.

There was a series of sickening bursts, as the endless twitching bodies of fallen undead erupted without warning; zombies were blown to bits in the wake of the gory explosions. Blood and smoke poured from the smoking, forming a thick, rotten stench in the air. From the thick, black smoke, Faustus stepped forward, his bloodied boots stepping over the litter of flaming, charred limbs and blackened forms that had been Ghül's undead horde only moments before2.

Faustus was breathing heavily; his face, clothes, dagger, and hands were covered in brackish blood. He limped forward, with a bleeding wound on his left leg.

Ghül simply smiled, and applauded lightly. "Brilliant! So, your powers have increased after your revival. You could never have a spell of such magnitude before your death."

Faustus sneered. "Is that enough for you? Are you going to fight me, or are you going to keep on hiding behind your pitiful conjurations?"

Ghül waved a friendly hand. "Oh, please. You know I'm far more capable than that." He said, as he slowly raised his arms; his dark cloak fell away, revealing a serrated scimitar held in his wrapped fist. "…in fact, I believe you have forgotten how capable."

Faustus sheathed his dagger, and slowly produced his giant scythe. "You're going down, bitch."

Ghül slowly stepped forward, and lunged forward, twin swords poised behind him. Faustus grinned and hoisted his scythe, eager for battle.

His eyes erupted from cold blue to a morbid crimson.

† † †

From low on the desert flats, the steep canyons grew into levels of giant mountains and hills, dotted with desert plants that crawled across the surface like hairs on a human head. The cloudless blue skies held the blazing sun, which beat down upon the mountains and cast a swamp of cool shade in the midst of the burning landscape. The canyons and peaks extended as far as the eye could see, though broken-down caravans lay, abandoned, in the desert, surrounded by the half-buried bones of various creatures and humans. A scorpion weaved its way in and out between the huge ribcage of a rotted demon skeleton.

Kassandra strode wearily through the desert sand, her feet growing heavier with every step. She raised her eyes from beneath her hood, looking up at the blinding sun. In the near distance, a trio of vultures soared and circled, eyeing her weak form with great interest.

She was sweating profusely, and had stripped off all of the clothes that her dignity allowed. A wicked stiletto was strapped to her bare thigh, and a giant crossbow was set across her back. She slowly stepped over a series of giant boulder, gazing across the barren wasteland. Her attention was immediately torn away when she saw something else in the distance.

Smoke.

Several thin pillars of black smoke billowed from a thin, corroded plateau in the distance, leaking into the clouds. Kassandra stared at the mysterious smoke for a moment, then started towards the plateau, first at a walk, then a jog, then a sprint. Her heart beat faster with every step, as countless thoughts and possibilities streamed through her head.

With every progressing thought, the conscience of Kassandra El'Roûke receded, and the spirit of the Bandit Queen, after three long years, rose once more. With an expert skill that had been long since locked away was once again unleashed; she silently whipped out her whip and her loaded crossbow, resting it casually it on her arm. With a gallant stride, she strode towards the cliff, her footsteps echoing in the thin winds; as she neared canyon mouth, Kassandra looked around her, and stopped in her tracks.

There was a moment of silence, as the Bandit Queen listened to something that could not be heard.

Out of the dark edge of the canyon, a rough shape leapt nimbly from the corners, launching itself at her with lightning speed. In a blur, Kassandra whipped out her crossbow and fired, her eyes not even moving to meet the incoming threat. There was a sickening burst, as a heavy body fell to the rough ground. The bandit queen calmly stepped over to the writhing body, giving it a strong kick with her boot. The top of the creature's head had been blown clean off, leaving a pulp of blood and muscle above the mouth; even so, Kassandra could discern the hated face of the horrendous monster, after three years.

It was one of Ghül's mutant zombies.

Without conscious thought, she pulled out another explosive bolt, and loaded it onto the bow. With a quick pull, the body exploded as she blasted the carcass at point-blank range. Gore flew into her face, but she calmly wiped it away; the body twitched and spasmed a few seconds more, then lay still. Kassandra could have cared less; her mind was focused on more important things.

At least, now, with the appearance of the zombie, she could indeed conclude that Ghül had returned once again.

The bandit queen lowered her bow, and looked around the canyon, searching for any more of the vicious predators. There was only silence, as life ceased to be in the blazing wastelands. A vulture flew away into the distance, carrying what looked to be a skull. The sound of her breathing seemed to be the only echo in the desert…

Kassandra cried out, as she felt rows of blades pierce into her back; she breathed inwards sharply, and collapsed to the ground, the crossbow flying from her hand. She growled, pulled forth her sheathed dirk, and gave a vicious backhand slash. The blade swiftly cut through rotted tissue, and Kassandra was faced with a headless mutant zombie, collapsing to the ground before her. The bandit queen cursed, and cursed again as she felt a steady trickle of blood from her wound. She hastily ran to retrieve her crossbow.

Immediately, another zombie slid from the shaded canyon walls. And then another, and another. Before Kassandra could comprehend what was going on, there was an entire mob of horrors circling about her, cutting off any path of escape. Their forked tongues flicked in and out from lips sewn shut, as their disgusting features pulsed and bobbed; they sniffed, the dry desert air, and gave a growl. Their primal instinct directed their entire system; they smelled her blood, heard her heartbeat. With every passing second, they closed in, waving their bladed hands and growling, almost as if they were communicating with each other.

Without wasting a second, Kassandra leapt for a zombie; she plunged her dirk into a zombie's head, thrusting downwards with massive force, and heard a loud tearing as the zombie fell apart, cut in half down the middle. Not showing any sign of disgust, Kassandra proceeded to slice into another horror. But even as she viciously tore off its head, two more would slip out of the shadows to take its place. Kassandra cried as she felt a clawed hand slice into her chest, then her neck, then her leg; she shouted and thrashed wildly with her blade; but even as she killed off zombies by the second, her strength was ebbing away; with every strike, blood poured from an old wound; with every slash, a new wound was opened.

"Damnit…" Kassandra panted, between gasps. The horrors converged, vaguely smiling through their surgically sealed lips. Their hands were outstretched, asking for her, reaching for her…

Kassandra felt herself trapped in a rough embrace of a zombie from behind; the undead cadaver drew her close, breathing its fetid breath into her face; from there, Kassandra could see the pulsing veins underneath its flesh. It growled, as it caressed her slowly, rubbing against her; she struggled to loose her arms from its grip, but she only felt it close around her more firmly than before. Its pale white pupils bored into her mind, as its tongue found it's way down her body.

"…_Ah_…"

She felt the long, wet tongue of the mutated horror slide and coil around her neck, licking at her bleeding wounds, sucking up the blood; it slid down her lips, to the bottom of her chin, and slithering down into her breasts…

With a cry, Kassandra thrust both arms outwards; with one arm, she reached behind her and grabbed onto the zombie's head. With the other, she planted the barrel of her crossbow into the side of its head, and fired; there was an ear-splitting crack as the horror's head exploded from the neck on up. It was launched several yards back, where it twitched a bit, before being dragged away by its cannibalistic comrades.

Kassandra straightened up, and managed a sneer, amidst her pain. "Sorry, playboy, I don't _do_ that shit."

She panted, wiping away the blood, sweat, and saliva from her neck; her clothes were torn and bloodstained, revealing her skin and undergarments beneath. Blood trickled from her countless cuts and bruises, dying the sand in a deep shade of red. The zombies closed in around her, within a meter of her. She could feel their hot breath on her bare flesh; she could feel their hunger for blood, for killing. Within her, the skill and spirit of the Bandit Queen was still burning strong, but the mortal body it belonged to was reaching its limits.

With a frustrated roar, the Bandit Queen loaded another bolt onto her crossbow and fired into the zombie's face at point-blank range. The zombie's head was immediately blown into bits, but the Bandit Queen was far from done. The bolt burst from the other side of its skull, and immediately exploded into the face of another horror. Kassandra had already loosed another bolt with even more furor; the stake viciously pierced the air, along with several zombies who happened to be in the way. The Bandit Queen did not stop to admire her handiwork; she whipped out a small, bundled projectile from her belt, and hurled it in the air at the zombies, who were charging towards her now with mindless bloodlust.

The Bandit Queen quickly loaded on another bolt, and without even looking, single-handedly fired. The bolt struck the airborne projectile with inhuman precision. Without warning, the projectile exploded, casting a merciless nova of incineration through the canyon**3**. The zombies screeched and flailed violently as they were enveloped, and reduced to hunks of burnt meat and ashen bones. Kassandra, herself, had to cover her eyes form the intense explosion. A fierce wind blew across the canyon, as the explosion died down, and the severe damage was revealed.

For a moment, there was a deathly silence, as the Bandit Queen casually regarded the smoking remains of Ghül's wretched creations.

Then, the first rock fell to the ground. The Bandit Queen immediately tore away from the sight, and began to run from the jagged canyon, as the towering cliff walls, slowly, then rapidly began to collapse in a gigantic landslide. Dirt, rocks, and giant boulders began to rain down into the canyon; the Bandit Queen leaped away as a giant, jagged piece of the cliff smashed a crater into the ground only a few inches from her face. Another fried, writhing zombie a few yards away was silenced, as a boulder fell with maximum force onto its chest; broken splinters of bone and dark blood splattered the nearby ground.

'_I knew I shouldn't have used that…_' Kassandra cursed to herself, as she rushed from the hail of stones.

A slag of limestone smashed onto the canyon, blowing Kassandra to the ground; she heard a faint crack, as a bolt of pain shot through her leg. She gave a cry, trying desperately to drag herself up to her feet, with her broken leg. A short rain of pebbles peppered her sprawled body, entailing a bigger, much bigger, object. She slipped a look upwards, and immediately saw a giant, dark, round boulder eclipsing the sun.

A mix of urgency and terror wrenched her mind. _'Oh, my fucking g-'_

It was falling fast…

…right above her…

† † †

Faustus grinned as Ghül's thin sword tore through the air near his head; he savagely swung his scythe, unleashing a ruthless series of slashes, cycling his weapon in rapid circles forcing Ghül to block every strike with his scimitar.

"Excellent skill, Faustus."

Faustus sneered, as the crimson flare in his eyes was rekindled. "Shut up and fight."

In that instant, an ear-splitting roar blew through the air below the plateau, shaking the earth. Faustus fell back slightly, while, Ghül calmly leapt backwards, landing gracefully on his feet. The plateau began to shake uncontrollably, as sickening cracks and rumbles were heard below. A huge chunk of the cliff slid off, and fell freely into the endless canyons below. Other boulders and stones began to fall as well; the base of the cliff tipped slightly.

Ghül sighed lightly. "Yet, it seems that this is all the time we have, for now." He said, his calm voice mysteriously piercing over the rumble of the cliffs. A crack appeared, and then several more; rocks started to fall off the crumbling face, as the cliff collapsed in on itself.

Faustus grinned. "Not even close." He growled, as he charged, swinging his giant scythe. As the blade sliced cleanly into the fast-collapsing rocks, Ghül casually sidestepped the blow, without even a hint of fear or aggression.

Ghül sneered and shook his head. "No; our war is far from over. The heavens have already dictated your fate. But until they reveal it to you…" he said, as he stepped backwards, and jumped off the crumbing plateau, falling into the abyss of the deep canyon below. Faustus roared, and leapt in after him, and immediately realized his mistake.

"Oh, god, that was _stupid_…" Faustus muttered, as he fell among the hail of sand and rocks, his coat billowing behind him. "_So_ stupid…"

As he fell, a faint voice whispered into his ear, though he was too frantic at the moment to take notice.

'_Until they reveal it to you…we'll leave you to search for it yourself…'_

† † †

**--------------------------------**

**1** – **Yes, dear readers; 3 years have passed since the end of Chapter 4.**

**2 – A super-godly Corpse Explosion Spell, just for the books.**

**3 - Equivalent to a modern patch of dynamite.**

**---------------Backstage------------**

I LOVE THIS JOB!

Ok, first things first: I've been busy these few days. I've got a few surprises planned for this story, which should bring this story to a close before Chapter 15, or at least before twenty; long stories piss me off.

If you have anything to say to me, feel free to e-mail me at (yes, I spell Budweiser with an 'ei', rather than 'ie'). Remember, I will _never_ respond negatively to any e-mail from anyone, not even if it's a flame or insult letter. I promise!

Thanks for all of your help in this series so far. Keep those reviews coming, I counting on you guys!

See you all again in Chapter 6…

'David Zhang'


	6. Tides to the Storm

Hello, readers, and welcome back to Priest of the Dead, a story that is quickly becoming a legend. When we last left off, Faustus had jumped off a cliff, and…yeah. The last part of this chapter doesn't make that much sense, but it will all fit in place, soon enough.

That said, please continue to give me ideas about how to write this story. And thank you, Ailythe, for your considerate review. It's rare that I get such a compliment from others.

I OWN DIABLO! HAHAHAHAHA! MINE! BOW DOWN TO ME…No, no, I'm just kidding. I don't own Diablo or any of that shit.

Here is the product of a coffee-induced all-nighter, I hope you enjoy.

**--------------------------------------**

™**Diablo II: Priest of the Dead**

†

**-6-**

Faustus stood at the top of a large boulder, amid the smashed rocks and rubble of the cliff, surveying the scene. Jagged portions of the cliff jutted unevenly through the ground, surrounded by broken stones and pockmarked walls of the canyon. There was an eerie silence, as Faustus hopped from one rock to another, picking his way through the rubble. A few pebbles fell from the gorge above, the collapsed remains of the plateau surrounding the outer rim of the canyon. A dried wooden log poked out from between two rocks, half-smashed and cracked.

A flock of vultures landed silently onto the edge of a broken boulder, and carefully forced their beaks into the tiny crevices among the rubble, searching for any signs of casualties caused by the collapse of the cliff above. They forced away pieces of rubble and wood, scavenging for signs of blood and rot. After a few minutes of pushing aside rocks and digging away sand, one of the vultures pulled out what seemed to be…a _heart_. The other vulture hopped over, and began snapping at the blackened organ, and the two vultures began to fight over the find.

Immediately, Faustus leaped up to the two birds; the vultures screeched and flapped frantically away from the sudden arrival of the human. Faustus paid them no mind; he was concentrated on digging through the rocks, trying to find the rest of the corpse that the vultures had unearthed. He soon found what he was looking for: pinned beneath the huge mass of the rubble, a burnt, disfigured corpse lay on the uneven dirt ground. But, though any other person would not have taken notice, there was something _strange_ about this body; Faustus could still make out a thin line where the lips had been sewn shut, and where the eyes had lain, there were just two dark, burnt sunken sockets, staring up at him with a leering glare. Even in death, the zombie's body was recognizable. Far more than recognizable, in fact.

'_Ghül._' Faustus thought.

The wind blew from the south.

A strong gust blew through the canyon, sending specks of dirt flying in the afternoon sun; from the top of the canyon, his tattered fedora hat blew into the valley. With unattached precision, behind the unsightly corpse in the shallow pit that he had dug, Faustus caught the hat from the air calmly between his thumb and forefinger, putting it on his head, shielding his eyes from the sunlight.

Or from the darkness…

† † †

The first thing she noticed was that her head hurt.

Bad.

As she slowly came to, she began to notice that she was lying on something...hard...she groped blindly around for a sign of where she was, and found none. She opened her eyes, slowly, adjusting to the faint light that bled through dark cliffs and ledges that lay throughout the canyons. She lay there, on the cold, rough ground, slowly orienting herself to her new, much darker environment.

_'Where am I?_' she thought.

Slowly, she began to rise, wincing as her tender flesh brushed against a rough edge of stone. Her joints ached, and her head seemed a bit dazed; Her entire body felt...shaken, like she had been struck by a bolt of lightning.

'_Heh...maybe that's why I can't remember...' _she joked to herself.

She tried moving her left arm, and felt it scrape across the dirt-streaked stones. She tried the same with her right leg, and was met with sudden spasm of pain that caused her to bolt upright and scream, swearing and clenching her fists.

'What the hell…was this…' 

She examined the cut, clearing away small bits of dirt that were clinging to the dampened blood on her ankle. Slowly, she recovered, and gathered up the torn bits of her cloak and short skirt and carefully wrapped them around her wounded leg. She reached behind her to feel her thigh, and was surprised to find a small, bleeding cut there. She felt it in the dim light, and winced at the pain. Dried blood was caked faintly on the dirt and sand, though Kassandra could not recall from what.

Delicately cradling her broken leg in its crude bandage, Kassandra slowly pulled herself up to her feet, clinging to the edge of a fallen boulder. She limped from behind its shadow, steadying herself; the setting sun cast a pale, pink glow onto her pale face. For a moment, Kassandra clung to the boulder, breathing in the deathly silence amid the broken rubble in the canyon; a lone vulture took flight from the cliff side above, screeching into the evening sky. A dry, jagged desert branch jutted outwards from beneath a small mound of stones and slag, pointing upwards into the wispy clouds. Kassandra picked her way over to the bleached wood, and examined it closely.

On the broken tip of the branch, there hung a small amulet, virtually hidden in the shadows of the setting sun.

'_What?'_ Kassandra's heart skipped a beat; she grabbed onto the pendant and pulled it off violently, bringing it in closer to her eye, examining every little detail, hoping that it would hold some clue as to the whereabouts of her prey.

It was a small, silver cross, extremely ordinary by all means; it was scratched badly, and no longer shined in the dying rays of the sun. There were no etchings, jewels, or designs carved into it; it was simply a small, jagged cross, hung on a finely braided silver mesh chain. But…there was something _about_ this pendant…she surveyed it more closely, but found no clue as to the pendant's origin. Yet she could sense something peculiar, something strange…

She stared at it for several moments, and as if on instinct, Kassandra donned the pendant necklace, slipping the chain around her neck.

Finally, letting out a breath, she turned towards the desert outside the steep valley, a vast expanse of rolling sands that were only beginning to cool into the nightscape. Fondling the newfound pendant, she gazed out into the distance, into the light of the dusk.

And among those sands, she could make out a slight shadow, already fading into the wind…

† † †

A dark blue shade was overcast among the low sands of the desert, stretching as far as the eye could see. A faint howl erupted in the distance, and was soon joined by a series of others, forming a choir of feral voices that heralded the coming of night. Then, each one, in turn, faded away with the darkness, until all that could be heard among the dunes was their eerie echo of their haunted chorus.

Slowly, from the top of the valley, a dark outline emerges; it wears a dark cloak that extends down to his feet. The figure says nothing, does nothing, merely surveys the valley scene set deep in the canyon below his feet, gazing silently at the darkness.

Then, with lightning agility, the figure abruptly leapt from the edge of the cliff, down into the valley a long, long distance away. His cloak billows in the wind above him, giving him the effect of a huge bat, descending down into its lair; he shows no sign of fear or doubt in his daredevil stunt; his mind is far elsewhere, though his body acts upon its own will, ricocheting off the yellow dirt sides of the deep canyon, almost to the effect of a fleeting shadow from some other being.

The man lands onto the cracked, uneven bottom of the canyon, crouched in a feral position, his head lowered; his long cloak settles silently onto the sand behind him, lifting up a slight cloud of dust. He does not move, does not even bat an eye, as if he is wary of the sounds of strangers. He hears nothing, and slowly rises to his feet; his bright, yellow eyes glint in the pale moonlight. The man walks slowly to the center of the valley, taking every step with measured cautiousness.There is a soft snap in the distance, like a foot stepping onto a twig; the man immediately stiffens, his hands outstretched, as if he is trying to conjure something; though he does not move, his eyes dart frantically from side to side, scanning for any creeping among the hanging shadows. Finally, the man steps forward, and crosses his arms across his chest.

Amidst the inky darkness of the pit, a blazing inferno explodes a few feet away from the man, blowing his cloak and hair backwards. From out of nowhere, tongues of flame light up the night sky. A strong gust tears through the valley, blowing bits of weeds and dirt into the cold night air; the blazing flames writhe and roar, as if they were alive. Dead leaves are carried up with the strong wind, and into the fire, where the blaze envelops them. The man watches, as the flames die down to a steady blaze; slowly, three black shapes emerge from the searing fire, flames trailing in their wake. The man does not even seem startled, but rather, as if he were expecting this.

As the three forms emerge into the night, the flames completely fade away into the night; trails of thin smoke rise into the sky. There was a moment of silence, as the three figures approached the man. They stopped a few meters away, and with no effort at all, one of the figures lifted up his hand, showing his palm; a small blaze erupted from it, a floating orb of fire that faintly lit the valley scene. With the fire that the stranger had conjured, the man could clearly make out the details of the three arrivals.

They all wore identical cloaks, the only thing that was darker than that of the night. There was the thin, slumped figure who had conjured the fire, his face cast in shadow; beside him stood a tall, frail outline, and behind them, a stocky figure, at least a head taller than the rest. Their faces were covered in deep hoods, though from their builds, the man could tell that there were two males and one female.

The tallest one spoke first. "Ghül." He said simply, his voice as hard as gravel.

Ghül smiled in the light of the flames. "Ah, my good friends. What news do you bring?" he asked cheerily, resting his cane onto the ground.

The woman turned to him. "The manifestation has began in the west, near Kingsport; by next blossom, the purging will already have begun." She said calmly. Her voice was soft and sweet, the sound of an angel's whisper.

The tall man spoke again. "I have made preparations for his return; my associates will take care of the southern front of Leoric's ruins. I will leave the rest up to you."

Ghül nodded knowingly, drumming his fingers on the handle of the cane, and gazing at the man holding the fire in his palm. "Good, good; and how is the master?"

The tall man remained silent; even his breathing was barely audible.

Ghül smiled, not at all offended at being ignored. "He always was a piteous fool." He said, and scanned over their numbers again.

"And…where is the Fourth Prophet?"

There was a long silence in the crackling of the small fire, as Ghül cast a wary eye onto the last man; the stranger was staring mournfully into the fire, his face masked. Finally, he nodded.

"…Tira…Tira will be with us…she will be revived…" He managed to mumble; his eyes met Ghül's.

Ghül nodded.

Without another word, the cloaked woman strode away from the firelight, and disappeared into the darkness. The tall man ruffled his cloak, and vanished as well; Ghül stared at the remaining phantom, as if waiting for something.

"Never forget, there is great power in your relics." Ghül said to him sternly, as he turned away, his cloak billowing in the wind; his footsteps disappeared into the darkness. "But as much as your fiery heart burns, fire can die…"

The last stranger simply stood in the valley, in the paling firelight. His coat fluttered in the night, and his fire wavered.

"Fire dies, yes…" he muttered to himself, as he snapped his hand into a fist; the fire immediately disappeared into a small shower of sparks and smoke. Darkness took hold in the deep valley.

"…but it never dies alone…"

**------------------Backstage--------------**

**Damnit! The last part was kinda confusing, I know, but that's because I had to inform the readers of the other characters; a teaser, basically. The rest of the chapters will be much, much better, I promise.**

**OK, time for a quick history lesson, just to clear up any misconceptions on where I get my plot devices, once and for all:**

**The tale of Faustus began in old Germany, where there existed a story about an alchemist and necromancer named Dr. Johan Fausten. A great scholar, Fausten came to know everything there was to know about anything. But still, he thirsted for more knowledge. So he made a deal with a demon he had conjured, named Mephistopheles; in exchange for Mephisto's power for 24 years, he would sell his soul to Hell (familiar, eh?). Much later in the tale (there's a lot of stuff that goes on in between; I just won't tell you about that), Fausten is tricked into going into Hell. The End. Wow. **

**Anyway, my friends and I have formed our official publishing firm: Hill Productions™. It's already got several projects in the works, and when they're ready, they'll be on I'll give you some previews in the next update. **

**Now, here, I could say something humorous to persuade you to review, like 'Reviews are GOOD things' of 'Review or die!', but God knows that shit never worked. Ever. So I'm saying to your face:**

'**PLEASE please please please please please please pleeeeeeeeeaaaaaaase review my story please please please!'**

**NEW FEATURE: Taking a page out of the book of a much more successful fan fiction author, I will respond to reader questions and comments in each new update, so feel free to ask!**

**Sincerely, **

**The staff of Hill Productions™:**

**_Writer:_ David 'Zhang'- ''**

**_Designer/Paperboy:_ Edward 'Prinzo'- §§**

**_Editor:_ Daniel 'Bobathon'- N/A 'O.O'**

**PS: Please don't ask me about Tira. She is dead. _Dead_. Or at least for now.**


	7. Hellion's Providence, Part 1

**Disclaimer: Hill Productions does not assume liability for any suicides of depression that may result from reading this series. And if we owned Diablo, we would be called Blizzard Entertainment, not Hill Productions, now wouldn't we?**

**Tip: The author has three copies of each chapter saved on separate locations: his laptop, his PC, and his portable hard drive. That way, he doesn't have to re-write 30+ pages of story simply because his files were declared 'corrupt', and settle for a lesser chapter, like acclaimed authors Robin F. Shirewood and RavenOnline. Now you know. Ooh.**

**NOTE TO STALKERS: FAUSTUS IS NOT IN THIS CHAPTER.**

-------------------------------------------

™**Diablo II: Priest of the Dead**

†

**-7-**

'_How heavy do I journey on the way,'_

'_When what I seek, my weary travel's end,'_

'_Doth teach that ease and that repose to say,'_

'_Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend…'_

-William Shakespeare, Sonnet 50

Rays of sunlight pierced through the hazy clouds, casting a bright glare onto the dark, drab landscape below, like an awakening to the light from a nightmare, a nightmare that no one remembered. The sands began to settle, as the howling gales are reduced to a slight breeze; the world awakens to a new day.

And for some, this was not a welcome notion.

The rising winds grew stronger still; in the depth of the winding canyon, a slight creaking echoed through the canyon, the sound of metal against metal. The wind continued to blow, and the creaking grew slightly louder…

In the corner of the hill, hidden among the blemished rocks and dusty overviews, an abandoned cottage lays, abandoned and obscure from the sight of outsiders and wanderers; its housings are scratched and broken, and it boards torn off long ago. Its rusted metal hinges and base remains, enduring the wrath of the blinding sand and wind. The roof is riddled with holes, and long, rough weeds sprout from between the stone roof tiles, blowing with the gusts that sweep the valley; the creaking grows louder, still.

From the side of the roof, a cracked pivot juts out, its sides streaked with caked mud and sand accumulated over years of disrepair; atop the beam, a small wind vale1 rests, rusted to the core; small pieces have begun to fall off, as the wind blows leaves off the ground, into the sky. Dirt and sand cling to the small rods, revealing its age; but as it creaks and turns towards the sun rising from the South, another fact becomes far more evident.

On the sides, the wind vale is wet with blood.

_Fresh _blood

A single drop of crimson leaks off of the rod, falling onto the dirt ground and splintering floorboards; as the gusts strengthen, the vale begins to creak, as it moves with the wind, its rusted arrows moving once more. The wind blows harder, howling in the morning desert.

The arrow begins to creak and settle lazily, in the wake of the wind blowing from the South.

As the vale shows its face to the sun, the glistening of the blood is made evident, no longer hidden from prying eyes; the red liquid drops onto the fast-heating sands, and sizzles.

The winds die down, and the vale creaks slightly.

Though silence maintains its hold in the desert, in the hidden shadows, a bloody arrow points to the South; it is a prophecy to those who care to notice, heralding the coming of a hellish entity so much greater…

† † †

There was a slight rumble as some dirt abruptly broke off from the edge of the cliff, and tumbled down the steep canyon, into the ravine far below; it released a slight cloud of sand into the air. There was a thump, followed by some muttered profanity; several bouts of scrabbling could be heard.

On top of a flat plane of a tall, stone plateau, a lean man knelt, leaning heavily on a small pack that was strapped to one shoulder. He was breathing heavily, and sweat covered his brow; his skin was heavily tanned, though any person would have guessed that his original complexion was that of a dark-skinned native of Aranoch. A black dragon-skin jacket rested on his back, though the sleeves were rolled up in the blazing sun; a mud-stained shirt was visible underneath the unbuttoned clothing. Long, dark trousers rested on his lower body, making the slight impression of a Goth. The man breathed a heavy sigh, and instinctively reached into the deep pocket of his pack, rummaging around; as his hand caught something, his face revealed a look of unamused suspicion. Rummaging around for a few second more, he pulled his hand back out again, and immediately noticed that it was covered in brownish muck.

"'Da hell is 'is?" he swore, wrinkling his nose, and shaking the liquid from his hand; he wiped his grimy hand on the leg of his trousers. A whiff of the substance passed his nose, and he immediately froze, his arms falling to his sides.

His head turned to cast an incredulous look to his grime-stained hand, and then to his pack hanging loosely on his shoulder.

"Ah, damn, not _again_!" he silently swore, urgently tearing open his pack and sticking his head in rather intrusively.

"SHIT, MA POTIONS MELTED!" he screeched in a muffled voice from within.

Jerking his head from the bag and desperately gulping in breathes of air, he gave a frustrated roar as he slid off his leather backpack and furiously hurled it off the side of canyon. The man wiped his face with his clean hand, and sighed.

"'Kay, 'am cool…" He breathed to himself; he squinted in the desert's heat, struggling to make out any recognizable signs of life or civilization; sadly, he found none. "Now, y'all be lookin' at the map…" he muttered, reaching for the pockets on his belt.

He blindly felt around for a moment; a blank expression crossed his features.

He ground his teeth.

"**_SHIT_!"**

† † †

The sun cast its light upon the worn yet grotesque gargoyles perched atop the steeples and sills of the ancient temple, creating complex webs of light and shadow on their misshapen features that truly bring about the horror of such creatures; these were creatures of Hell, though the extent of gross abominations the underworld was capable of creating vaulted far beyond human imagination. No, these were chipped, soiled imitations of true evil, though malice did not always reveal itself on the surface; they were artifacts of a bygone era, of whose sculptors were long dead and decaying in their graves, first to carrion, then to bone, then to dust. Yet their creations outlived them, bearing witness to the unspeakable events yet to unfold.

At first glance, the temple itself was unremarkable; ancient cuneiforms had been etched into all sides of the temple by the hand of a priest to a cult whose name, date, and cause had long been lost. Only this rotting temple remained here, carved into the face of a hollowed mountain and hidden deep within the shadows of the deepest crags in the canyon, a faint memory of time that had lost its priority.

But the content within was all but forgotten.

The aged stone doors creaked open loudly, groaning as it let in welcome rays of warm sunlight that illuminated the dark, damp vault within; the creaky hinges caused dust and dirt to fall to the grimy floor of the frame. Insects and small rodents immediately scampered hurriedly into their niches and crannies, aware of a converging presence, as heavy footsteps echoed off the ancient walls and incredibly high ceiling, inscribed with illegible markings from long ago.

An old man strode in.

The aged man was clad in heavy plated armor, though it looked quite strange, as the man was hunched over, his thin neck hardly filling the large metal collar. The boots were fastened with strips of leather, as they were at least three sizes too large for the man's withered legs; they clanked awkwardly as he walked the length of the room. The sunlight the huge double doors let in revealed a large mud-brick walkway surrounded on both sides by ground inscribed with cuneiform, but worn away from years of walking, that led to a pedestal, raised at least fifty feet, at the far end of the room; upon it rested a column, fully covered in the characters and runes of an archaic race, meant to be a record of their ancient histories and legends. There were cuneiforms of various shapes that, to the average scholar, would have resembled little more than random anger-induced scratches on stone; the letters spiraled upwards, encircling the column like a preying snake. As the man lifted his head, he could see that the millions of tiny symbols from the column did not end at the tip that was driven and planted into the arches; instead, the words extended from the end of the spire onto the tall, distant ceiling, barely visible, and completely encasing it in the ancient characters, to become a replica of the walls and floor. Though some bits of the huge cathedral's text had been worn away by time or chipped off by the tools of past invaders, the whole of the temple remained largely intact; large cracks ran along the walls, obscuring entire portions of text, and mice and rodents dwelled freely within the many holes bored into the floor, a testament to its incomparable age. Unfortunately, there would only be one man left on the earth that could understand, and therefore appreciate, such an ancient language.

His name was Deckard Cain.

Cain sighed as he took small, slow steps towards the pedestal, taking in the grand sight of the previous owners' highly advanced terminology; though he had been inside this chamber many times before, it still felt new to him every single time, a paradise for him to indulge in his fascination with ancient languages. He had been told time and time again that he had inherited that trait from his idolized father. In his youthful years, he had believed their compliments; but now, as his father was resting in his grave and he became a weak old man, he was beginning to have his doubts about whether he was really as accomplished as his father had been.

He paced briskly up the pedestal's incredibly steep staircase, careful not to harm the meek, delicate carvings on each step with his rough greaves. The climb seemed to take forever, as Cain strained to take each step up the tall stairs in the increasingly heavy armor.

'_Well, I'm lucky I didn't carry that damn sword, as well.'_ Cain thought to himself with grim humor; his old body was growing increasingly senile. Soon he knew it would be time to step down from his post, and let another, more youthful person assume command of the Horadrim name.

As he at last reached the top, he took a full two minutes to catch his breath, his hands on his knees, panting. Finally, taking a deep breath, he took a long moment to decipher a few characters on the large column set before him, then turned around to stare down at the large court far below.

To his amazement, he found four people already within the ancient chamber, watching him expectedly. They were all of different heights, sizes, and genders, but all of them wore the same uniform of pitch-black, high-collared robes of the Horadrim, as well as the same indifferent expression on their faces. Cain felt a pang of embarrassment at the realization that they had witnessed him near the verge of collapsing from exhaustion, thereby further speeding his retirement. He quickly dispelled that thought, though, as he surveyed the small group below. From the crook of his arm, he withdrew a small clump of ratty, stained parchments, and unrolled them, squinting to read the text in the dim light. Clearing his throat, he began to speak, his voice echoing off the high vaulted arches and walls.

"Aerin Lacroix!"

A woman stepped forward, tall, thin, and gorgeous, her long black hair falling neatly behind her head. She put on an expression that conveyed an attempt at seriousness.

"Sir!" she shouted, obviously uncertain that the old man could hear him, with his deteriorating hearing.

"Just say 'Present'."

"Present, sir!" she said in a slightly lower voice, wavering a bit.

Cain sighed deeply.

"Horus Radament!"

"Sir!"

"Cathrom Marius!"

"Sir!"

"Lenov Baskerville!"

"Yo, _waddup_!"

Cain spastically tore the parchment in half, his teeth clenched. "God _damn_, Lenov, will you _please_ get with the program!"

A burly, dark-skinned man stepped out from the ranks. His beard was grown around the corners of his mouth, and his close-cropped hair was shaved off neatly into cornrows. Muscles bulged involuntarily from beneath his deep black cloak. "Yo, cool down, man, you ain't getting' no younga."

A red vein could be seen pulsing on Cain's nearly bald and rather shiny forehead; he managed to remain relatively calm, despite the loud grinding of his teeth. He gave a long sigh, and sat down slowly on the base of the monumental column.

"We shall begin court as of now." He announced in a slightly tired voice; no anger was in his tone. "Lucroix, your progress on the disturbance at Westmarch?"

Aerin looked down at her shoes, seemingly afraid of Cain; she said nothing for a long, long while. Finally, Cain impatiently cleared his throat.

"Well?"

"I'm s-sorry, sir…but we…we just can't d-draw any useful information from the local townspeople…" She said in whisper, barely audible; her eyes still focused on the ground, as if she burned under Cain's watchful gaze.

Cain bent closer. "I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you; could you repeat that?"

"…we-"

"And _look_ at me when you're talking!"

Aerin slowly raised her gaze to gaze at him through peripheral vision; her face conveyed a subtle mixture of sadness, conviction, and fear.

"…We didn't find anything, sir." She said, maintaining as steady a posture as possible, unsuccessfully trying to hide her fear.

Cain furrowed his brow stood up, drawing creaks from his armor. His look of suspicious musing transformed into "It's been almost a month, Aerin-"

Aerin winced slightly at his use of her first name.

"-surely you would've found _something_! If there were indeed demonic involvement, the forces of Hell would not go to such…such monumental lengths to hide it away from mortal eyes." Cain finished.

Aerin bit her lip and returned her gaze to the ground, as if she wanted to just disappear. But she could not; no, she could only wait for further instructions from this old man, and hope that this would not end as badly as she expected.

Cain finally sighed, sensing her distress. "But then again, it is not entirely your fault."

Aerin eased up a bit.

"I give you ten more days to present your findings to the Council. If you cannot accomplish anything by then, we will be forced to distribute penali-….ahem, _disciplinary_ actions; of course, being one among the Central Consuls, you must have known that already." Cain added, leaning on one arm, as if he were quite amused to see the young girl squirm.

Aerin immediately stiffened. There was a moment of awkward silence.

"Is that clear?"

The young girl bit her lip. "…Y-yes, sir."

"You are dismissed."

She did not need a second invitation; Aerin hastily rushed from the chamber. As she headed for the tall double doors, Lenov could see that she had bitten her lip to the point that a small trickle of crimson blood ran down the side of her mouth, though she did not utter a word of displeasure.

He sighed. Young people these days…

"Horus!" Cain shouted.

A rather tall man stepped forward from beside Lenov and bowed deeply towards the pedestal, as if he were honoring the ancient artifact rather than Cain himself. He was stocky, with a thin neck and angled arms; his brown hair had been cut completely straight, and his finely trimmed sideburns gave him an impression of rugged civility.

"Sir." His voice, unlike Aerin, was proud and confident; a subtle smile rested on his lips.

Cain sat up a bit straighter in his makeshift seat; he filed through the handful of parchments, and nodded to himself. "Horus…"

"Sir." Horus did not seem at all annoyed at repeating himself; in fact, he even seemed amused at conversing the old man, like a youth toying around with his grandfather.

Cain cleared his throat again, and continued in a more regal voice. "…observing how you are currently idle, I would like to assign you to an operation."

The smile immediately faded from his face. "Permission to speak, sir." Horus said in a slightly harder tone.

"Granted."

Horus sighed lightly. "Sir…if I may, I request permission to accompany Lacroix in her current investigation near Westmarch."

Cain was evidently startled. "What? Horus, since when-"

As Lenov watched the exchange between the two men, his eyes moved from the pedestal to the open doorway, in which sunlight leaked in from the crack in the valley. Lenov watched the entrance for a moment, then returned his attention to the court procession.

"…and I'm sure Lacroix could use-" Horus was saying.

Lenov's gaze immediately darted to the doorway, his senses acute. He was positive this time; there was something outside the door. As he watched, a fist slowly emerged from the side of the doorway. The hand immediately extended its index and pinkie fingers, followed by its thumb.

Lenov nodded, and cleared his throat rather loudly.

"Sir."

"…important, and if she can't…" Cain was saying, his voice steadily rising.

"_Sir."_

"…_shouldn't be_-yes, Lenov, what is it?"

Lenov straightened his posture, casting a wary glance at the doorway. "Well, hearing that Horus is willing to aid Aerin in her investigation, I would like to recommend another to undertake this assignment."

Cain blinked for a moment, taking in all that Lenov had said, and had apparently aroused his suspicion.

"…and just who would _that_ be?"

Lenov smiled, quite at ease with himself. "May I present my only son and trusted associate…" he bowed, and gestured to the gaping double-doors.

"…_Leon Baskerville."_

Instantly, a slim, gaunt silhouette appeared in the doorway; an air of uncertainty immediately settled upon the hall. Cain's eyes widened as he tensely waited in disbelief for the true face of the new arrival. Even Horus seemed a bit uncertain; his eyes followed the figure stride casually into the hall.

All of them were slightly surprised.

The man called Leon Baskerville was covered head to toe in dirt and dust; his expensive-looking hide jacket was tarnished in splashes of dried mud, and a rather sick-looking stain rested on his left pant leg. Two sheathed katanas hung loosely on his leather belt, their designs faded and covered in dirt. His hair was arranged in curled locks tied with a ponytail in the back and hanging out in the front, as opposed to his father's orderly buzz cut. A chin half-full of unshaved stubble, dirty smell…Cain made a face at the younger Baskerville's haggard appearance. Leon took no notice that could be observed; he strode over to Lenov, and grinned broadly.

"'Sup, ma nigga!" Leon said, ignoring the burning stares of the others within the chamber, as he high-fived Lenov.

"Waddup." Lenov returned, in a slightly lower voice2. _"What da hell took you so long?"_ he whispered through gritted teeth.

"Left da map in ma pack, dog." Leon said loosely.

"_What-"_ Lenov questioned further, but Leon had already slipped past his grip, past the silently tense members of court, and was striding before the high pedestal.

"Sir." Leon said in a deep voice, as he knelt on one knee, bowed his head, and ended up looking quite noble.

Lenov sighed and averted his gaze; a flash of amusement flashed through the eyes of Horus.

Cain hesitated for a moment, looking down at the expectant Leon, and finally spoke in a rather defiant voice, as he gave a deep sigh under his breath. "Hm…tell me, Leon, what makes you think you are qualified to undertake a mission desired for a high priest of the legendary Horadrim?"

Leon paused, and his noble stance wavered. "Uuhh…well, ma old man's…one of these Horadrim guys, so I guess…"

"That is no reason to trust you. I've met plenty of heirs to noble priests who were little more than thick fools."

Leon was beginning to lose patience with being harassed by an old man. "Well, I…yo, you talkin' shit about me, geezer?"

"What if I am, _fool_?" Cain spat the last word with obvious distaste.

Leon ground his teeth, his breathes coming out in slightly annoyed snorts; with unexpected agility, his hand sprang for the long swords at his belt. "_Sonova-_"

In the next instant, Lenov seemingly vanished and reappeared behind his son, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Believe me, boy, you won't wanna _do_ dat." He whispered into Leon's ear. Leon peered around the court.

Horus, a calm look on his features, had eight throwing knives poised readily between every one of his fingers, and aimed at Leon's forehead; Marius silently watched with a stone expression. Cain was half amused and half expectant; his legs were stretched out and crossed. Leon silently glowered at the old man, his hands not moving from the sheaths of the katanas.

After an uncertain moment, Leon straightened up and stuck both hands in his jacket pockets. Giving a sigh, he glanced up at Cain. "'Kay, how about you tell me what this job is, first, and maybe we can work 'is out."

Cain thought for a moment, before nodded. "I don't see any harm in that." He said, as he pulled out the piece of parchment and began to read, pausing and re-reading as if he were narrating to himself. "Well, Leon, it seems that you've a murder case on your hands."

Leon raised an eyebrow. "S'cuse me?"

Cain continued. "A series of disappearances caught my attention, as of late; no trace of the victims have been found, nor of the culprits. Though there is no specific region where the incidents are occurring, it seems that…Lenov, will you show them the diagram, please?"

Lenov nodded, and drew out a rather large piece of paper, yellowed and torn. Unrolling it, he displayed it to the prying eyes of the others.

It was a map of the eastern jungles of Kurast; the details were faded away at places, and Leon could tell that some of the data was outdated (There was a landmass between the Twin Straits, and Aranoch was absent from the map altogether). A dotted line had been etched into the map, starting halfway through the western portion of the jungles.

Cain talked as the Leon and the other priests examined the drawing. "The vanishings start at the outskirts of the abandoned docks, and continue up from there in a relatively straight path. Each of the dots represents a disappearance."

Leon used his finger to trace a path that followed the dots. They crossed the Lesser Grande River, through the villages, and ended at…

Leon stared, and opened his mouth to speak.

"Yes." Cain cut him off. "The ruins of Mephisto's ancient temple."

Leon tore his eyes form the map and gazed at a smug Cain. "Whoa. This is over the top, dog."

Cain smirked. "So, think you can handle it? Horus will be more than willing to hand this operation over to you, of course."

Another moment of silence ensued, as Leon cast his gaze over the ranks of expectant priests; Horus seemed particularly tense. He paused for a second longer as his eyes met those of his father. Lenov simply put a light palm to his heart and nodded. Leon faced Cain once again, albeit with more confidence on his face.

"Absolutely."

-----------------------------------------

1- You know, one of those things on top of barns with the arrows on them, and the chicken on top. Except this time, it's not a chicken.

2- Yes, both Lenov and Leon Baskerville are black. And I mean black as in _ghetto_.

------------------**Backstage**------------------

**The wind vale part was kind of tedious, but I wanted to make it seem symbolic; I don't know if I succeeded or not. Maybe I wasted an entire two pages. Hell, I think this entire chapter was a waste of pages; thank god it's not a hard copy. Please review, anyhow.**

**I know you're thinking 'he still hasn't explained why there's a black guy in the story, and that after about a month of waiting, Faustus isn't in this chapter'. Leon Baskerville will be the last main character in this story, I swear; after this, things will begin clearing up. See, I had just realized that every single hero in the Diablo game is white. The paladin look like he's black, but I think he's Hispanic. Not intending to dabble into racial issues here, but I just thought it would be fun if I added a bit of urban flavor into the story. Leon will be more adequately introduced in later chapters. As for Faustus…after I finished the court scene, I figured that there wasn't any more room for another scene. He'll be in the next one, though. Also, seeing as how readers are beginning to get in touch with the characters, I'd like to introduce one of each of the characters every chapter (as if this horrible chapter wasn't long enough already). This update, we'll introduce:**

Johann Faustus III 

'_**I'm going to have to kill you for not putting me in this chapter.'**_

Height, weight and features: I'm not going to tell you this, since using your imagination is half the imagination, isn't it?

Age: 22 when killed

Creation Process:

Okay, I started thinking about this story after my first (failed) fan fiction, which was strapped for reviews at the time (two reviews from the same guy: mad-man; not surprising, since he is the master reviewer of every Diablo fan fic). After much pondering while taking walks around the neighborhood, I figured that my characters had to be more tortured and immoral. The premise for Priest of the Dead developed in my head, and with it, Faustus. The idea of a guy who was revived from the dead yet still retained his sentience and emotions seemed particularly appealing. The concept of an original story only added to my interest. So, I set about writing the first chapter on my laptop, which is why it is rather short. Faustus' character developed on its own, and I'm rather pleased with how he turned out. Sadly, I have yet to write a backstory for him, but I will, soon enough.

Instead of having him use a classic weapon, like a sword or axe, I gave him a Grim scythe, which is much more entertaining to visualize. I may have drawn some battle concepts from manga, but never consciously. Faustus is incredibly agile and powerful through the abilities granted to him through Mephisto's possession. Yet, he does not use magic, because even the term 'magic' draws scorn at Hill Productions. Magic should be a tool that is used only by the few people who understand it, rather than an excuse for fundamental law (ooh, I can fly, blow up entire landmasses, and control the elements because it's 'magic'!). It is such use of 'magic' that leads to crap mangas and TV shows like 'Rebirth', 'Angel', and 'The Twilight Zone' (well, the latter is okay, actually). Therefore, I expected all of my characters to be equally strong without the use of 'magic'.

Okay, time to check the mail… 

**MagicManSmokeGirl- **Yes, Tira is the vampire that Faustus killed way back in Chapter Two, three years ago in the story. She will be back, as if you couldn't guess that.

I was almost going to throw out the fire part, because it was so confusing. But seeing how people like it, it stays.

**Ailythe- **I appreciate your praise for my work; I rarely get such a devoted reader, so it's good to know that someone else out there shares my passion for writing. Thank you.

**Mad-man-** Uh…well…thanks for the review, anyway.

**Outofpoint-** I'm glad you noticed that I'm trying to dispel the 'weak, shriveled old man who looks like a corpse and uses a little magic stick' stereotype. I hope others will, as well.

**Strahil- **Yes! Another fan! I've read all the other MTG cycles, but I didn't read more than Book I of the Kamigawa cycle, because I thought the premise was stupid (Cat-people? Jesus, that's lame). I really can't see any resemblance from my story (Faustus) to theirs (Umezawa). As for publication, I've read better stories that have been rejected, while all the existing Diablo novels suck ass. That's just the way it is.

**Rising Dragon-** I just make up the names as I go. As for your story, I just noticed that the writing style was surprisingly similar to several WarCraft fics. It's nice, though.

**Well, that just about wraps up this update. Since I don't update at set intervals, it would help to put this story on Story Alert. **

**/((xx) **

**-Until next update,**

**David 'Zhang' of Hill Productions**


	8. Hellion's Providence, Part 2

Whoo! Tempers have been flaring high here at Hill Productions, where controversy has been the subject on Leon Baskerville (the black guy), whom Prinzo wants dead. Some readers have expressed this mood, but at least give Leon a few more chapters. 

Scenes of Chaos from my head:

Originally posted by Zerg0nator

URZA: PSYCH! You're no match for great Urza!

During my untap step, I shall UNTAP the CHIMNEY IMP!

JAYA: Noooooooo! Teh B0rk3ness is overwhelming

me! Must burn stuff!

MISHRA and ASHNOD (beside the arena): OMFG URZA

UNTAPPED THE PIMP!

MISHRA: "I think 'toast' is an appropriate

description"

JAYA: OMGWTF? That's my line! bolts mishra

**Come to think of it, I think this story _would_ be much more enjoyable if you visualized it as a manga**.

-------------------------------------------

™**Diablo II: Priest of the Dead**

†

**-8-**

_Hardest of deaths to a mortal_

_Is the death he sees ahead._

_- Bacchylides, fifth century B.C._

Something gave Faustus a strange feeling about this place.

Maybe it was the fact that all the buildings were in flames, as a thick cloud of smoke plagued the air. Maybe it was because whitened, soggy corpses were trudging around in the ruins, their milky-white eyes, bloodless lips and decaying limbs conveying a deadness that had never come. Their outstretched arms yearned for fresh blood and flesh, delicacies that they could not taste, but were merely driven by their desire for the process by which to acquire them: death. No, not death, but undeath, beings of the earth who are technically dead but still exist in their wretched guise, to move, and interact with, and devour the living in a physical form granted to them by the forces of Hell. These beings were not created through the work of the Three, not that they could, but rather, manifested by the spirits of neither light nor dark, into these gross cadavers of pale skin and rot. Some of them still resembled the people they were in life, still stained with their own blood, still impaled with the weapons of their demise; with their life, they had lost the capacity to feel pain and pleasure. Well, not pain; they were always in pain in this vessel. That was what drove them: not hunger, nor evil, but unbearable pain and fear. The light from the blazing inferno played masks of shadows across their dead faces. Flies bustled around and settled onto their rotted bodies, taking pleasure in their festering agony.

Faustus slid down the side of the hill, his eyes locked onto those of the rotting cadavers. Flaming pieces of wreckage collapsed onto the ground littered with bodies; a cloud of ash hovered above the town. Without notice, Faustus casually strode into the streets of the ghost town, past rows of marching zombies. It took a rather long time for them to notice him; he found this ironic, as he stopped in the center of the town square to survey the damage, amidst this flock of undeath. A haggard corpse lay sprawled on the rim of the fountain, its bloody fingers dipped into the dark water, dying it into a slight shade of red.

Faustus sighed, and turned around to face a mass of zombies, reaching out for him, stumbling towards where he stood.

He did not move, as he calmly watched them inch forward. "You know why you are like this?"

There was no answer, simply the low moan of undead and the soft howl of the wind.

"Because you wanted life." Faustus said. "And yet, in this form, you still want it."

Silence.

"…But I cannot give you life." He continued, as they strode ever closer. 'All I can give you…"

Faustus raised his head again from beneath the brim of his hat.

His eyes burned a fiery red.

"…is _death_!"

But even as he drew forth his wicked blade, his mind wondered if his words were meant more for himself than for his foes.

As the first animated corpse leapt forward from the mass, Faustus met it head-on with a diving slash to the face, cleaving the forehead and tearing its way between the eyes, opening up a huge, bleeding gash in the creature's skull; the zombie flailed around blindly before having its body severed at the waist, in turn.

It winced too late.

Faustus quickly withdrew his blade and rolled sideways as the flock descended upon him. The silhouettes of the gaunt, bloodied monsters became ever more clear in the smoke of the flames. A gnarled talon reached out from within the thick smoke, and Faustus promptly sliced off the arm at the elbow; the rest of the body tumbled forward, grabbing onto his coat and proceeding to drag him into the haze. He growled and stabbed viciously at the rotting fingers and putrid flesh and muscles that peeked out from underneath its pale, translucent skin. It dragged him in close, and for once, even Faustus had to marvel at the twisted, malformed visage of an angry zombie; or at least as angry as a corpse could be.

The facade of the carcass was almost as if someone had done a poor job of flaying off their face while they had been alive; strips of slightly green flesh did little to cover the bloodied skull underneath, with patches of ragged, tainted hair and pulsating muscle still attached. Its nose was nonexistent; only a gaping hole joined by pieces of stretched skin marked where it had once been. Its lips had long since rotted away, and it seemed that its gums were going next, as Faustus saw writhing worms slithering along the remains of the tongue within its gaping jaws and yellowed, bent teeth. A single yellowed eyeball rested, pupil-less and crooked within its broken socket, rolling around madly at random angles without focusing on any one thing. Putrid odors and saliva leaked from its mouth as it breathed on him; Faustus momentarily thought he was going to die from the stench alone.

After that moment was gone, he savagely plunged the tip of the razor into the monster's face, drawing a large spurt of pale blood, as well as a distorted scream that sounded as if it were composed of a thousand individual whispers. The zombie writhed and clutched feebly onto his wrist, trying to push him away; not hesitating, Faustus twisted the blade and reduced what was left of its face to mere strips of bone, as the seemingly endless spray of crimson showered into the fountain, followed by the body itself. The carcass gave a few twitches, splashing water about, as its eyeball slowly unattached itself from its expired host, and bobbed to the surface, as if watching the remainder of the spectacle. Blood continued to spill from the mutilated face of the corpse, but Faustus was no longer paying attention.

By now, the swarm was charging in groups, clinging and biting onto him as he cut them to pieces. His razor bit greedily into their skin, and to the blood underneath. Flies swarmed the sky overhead, feasting on the flesh of the dead, undead, and redead with a strong sense of both impunity and indifference.

Faustus shook off the hungry claws of another zombie, and eagerly slit open its chest; blood and organs tumbled forth, and quickly fell victim to waves of flies. The zombie collapsed to it knees, and fell forward on its face, writhing and screeching. Faustus did not hesitate in his mad fury, the soles of his boots stained red as they splashed past puddles in the rain of blood. The waves continued to surge towards him, adding fuel to his aleready blazing inferno, a fire that was far beyond that of the burning town around him.

There was a scream.

A second of silence ensued, as Faustus finally hesitated in his killing spree. His heart skipped a beat, his boots skidding to a stop on the mud. He glanced around hastily, seeming to disregard the zombies; as he did, they, too, turned their undead gaze away from him.

He could already tell that what was going through his mind was already beginning to emerge in theirs.

As Faustus watched in growing horror, the flock slowly turned away and began moving in towards the sound of survivors, their milky-white eyes searching for fresher, easier prey. He sprang out of the now-abandoned town square, with its reddened fountains, past flaming shops and houses; through the ruin that was now dominant in this place, Faustus suppressed his inner rage, a rage that was a personification of an entity he had only began to understand. It would emerge and react as needed, yet reveal little about its true nature in the process; but on the occasions it did surface from the deep, murky depths of his wandering soul, it took total control; he would feel himself consumed by its anger and unexplainable hatred, as well the forceful notion it induced to do unto others.

The thought was quickly pushed from his mind, whether by his own will or that of the one within…no, what was he thinking? There was no one within his soul; He was Johann Faustus, and he was on a mission. A mission to…

He stopped the train of thought, mainly because he was more concentrated on navigating the chaotic ghost town than he was in thinking.

A voice seemed to answer it for him:

'…_to kill…'_

† † †

The undead seemed to stop abruptly at the edge of the town; they shambled over the smoldering remains of the buildings, which slowly bent and collapsed in on one another, filling the street with charred, broken wreckage. The sound of crackling flames and the disgusting stench of burning flesh made him slightly nauseous.

As he squinted through the thick haze, he could make out the remnants of the horde, trudging through the ashes and ruins, their ghostly silhouettes outlined by tongues of flame as they walked indifferently through the blazing wreckage, causing several of the undead to sizzle, as wisps of smoke rose from their burning flesh. A few spontaneously burst into flames, their dead, tortured features twisted in mock expressions of agony, as they fell to their knees, writhing and jerking wildly like a dying slug; the fire engulfed their bodies like fresh tinder, transforming them into a half-living fireball. Their blackened remains continued to burn, and the zombie continued to struggle, screeching and clawing at the air.

Faustus tore his gaze from the ghastly scene, and once again darted after the host of undead; yet, he could feel the creature within him laughing and enjoying every moment of it. He was near enough to make out the majority of the wretched zombies; they were huddled very closely together, pushing, shoving, and flailing like a pack of hungry wolves tearing and fighting over a fresh kill, albeit in a slightly more slow, deadened manner. Faustus impulsively drew forth his jagged, curved stiletto; it shined a dull shade of red, covered in wet splotches of blood.

As the fire within him once again reignited, he immediately felt adrenaline flowing through his veins; all other thoughts were drowned out, and fully dominated by his irrepressible craving to kill, and his overwhelming capability to do so. His body felt only a bottomless hate for the unholy throng assembled before his eyes; the common functions of the human transformed into the primal vehemence of a beast, a predator. With demonic alacrity, he leapt effortlessly above the gathering, his blade ready to sever the limbs of his enemies; meters above the mass, he gave a maddened sneer.

In midair, Faustus grabbed the reddened blade with one bare hand, with the hilt gripped tightly in the other; the blade cut a slight incision within his palm and the fold of his fingers. Ignoring the cuts completely, he drew the reddened blade up to his side, with only a few meters left between him and the wretched refuse of undeath below. They barely noticed his descent, their single-mindedness obstructing their greatly disabled function of self-defense.

"…_Kshacha'idas Rschasaah…"_ words flew from his lips, words that sounded distant and foreign to his own ears, and texts so vile they had been sealed away and forgotten, meant never to be spoken again.

Two meters from the ground.

Faustus fell farther into the horde; his blade was blotched with his own fresh blood, first shining both in the fire of the inferno around it and in the rage in the necromancer's eyes, then in its own mysterious gleam. Instantly, he felt the increasing warmth of the blade. The blood on his dagger glowered an increasingly angry shade of crimson, finally burning a shade of bright yellow that exceeded the prominence of the raging fires.

"…_Y'shokaa káohc Gjeam'aij!" _

The words flew from his lips with epic finality; he fiercely lashed the blade from within his grasp and shed a spray of fresh blood. It splattered onto the lines of undead in a gruesome continuation to the rain of blood that had befallen the town. Their facades of hunger transformed to quizzical gazes of confusion.

Their curiosity instantly transformed into terror, as the blood burst into searing flames.

Zombies screamed in tortured agony as patches of wet blood burst ablaze, burning their flesh and blackening the bone beneath. Gross worms and insects wriggled forth from within their flaming hosts, dropping onto the charred dirt and disappearing amidst the flames.

In the malarial mists and choking ash, a lone priest stood; where a fouled blade once rested, in his hand was a gleaming reaper, shadowed in the backdrop of flaming obelisks and amassed corpses. The unholy sight was marked by his cry as he swung viciously with the blade; the scythe gladly gutted through the legion. The undead pushed forth, hurtling en masse into his onslaught of blades. Their severed limbs and warm blood baptized the ground and sank deep into its roots, claimed greedily by the burning hells deep below. The blood quenched the demon's thirst and doused the flames of the mortal realm; blood as red as wine.

Tempted, Faustus eagerly took it in.

Scents of blood and mud assailed his nostrils, and were accompanied by the stench of toxic death and blood, slowly wasting away. Another wave fell to his rage; Faustus sneered and darted about, searching for more enemies to slaughter; his bloodshot eyes gleamed like glass in the glint of firelight, reflecting the madness within his mind and the gleam of his crazed blade. The straggling remainders of the dead seemed to have vanished, like an ocean, and died out among the towering tongues of flame, apparating into slight shadows behind the wall of fire. His rage however, had no intention of doing the same.

In the midst of the blazing havoc, the biting winds carried a whimper to his ear.

He spun around, his chest rising and falling as he struggled to ease his pounding veins. Hungry eyes probed every corner of the ruined avenue that met his gaze; he heard a slight intake of breath, and then…silence.

The maddened necromancer ground his teeth in anticipation. "_Come out!"_ he shouted to the sooty air; it echoed through the empty streets, the wailing voice of a banshee to forewarn the death of the town, but too late.

There was a low scratching.

Faustus immediately strode to the side of the desolate street. His bloodied hand clasped a large wooden beam from a large pile of debris lying beneath the ruin of a work shed, burnt and blackened, lifting it and heaving it aside as if it were nothing but a stick. It crashed against the beams of a flaming hotel, splintering its remaining support struts and causing the side of the hotel to collapse in a sickening groan.

Underneath the rubble laid a child.

It was a young boy, looking no more than ten; his thick black hair was slicked with blood and water, and fell over his tears, from which gleaming trails of tears welled up at the corners and flowed down his cheeks, dripping onto the parched dirt. The child stared up at him with terrified eyes, his lips pursed. His oversized shirt was torn into the bleeding bruises beneath; a pair of tattered trousers clothed legs that curled up in fear behind the mound.

"So you saw." Faustus said flatly.

The child gave a frightened nod.

For a moment, silence took hold.

Faustus studied the boy.

The boy stared back.

"Go." Faustus said, his voice nearly a whisper.

Hesitantly, the boy took a step back.

"Run. Flee from this place." Faustus told him; his voice was slightly louder.

The child turned and fled into the shadows, his footsteps pattering against the cold dirt. Faustus watched him go, letting his shoulders sag as he turned and walked deeper into the town. The towering central buildings had already crumbled into ashen heaps, though embers still glowered in the biting chill. Voices continued to whisper in the night wind, and amidst them, a true voice spoke:

"You lied."

Faustus halted, his hand shooting towards his knife. He pulled it out, and spun around; instantly, he felt a tendril coil around the blade, fiercely wrenching it from his hands. It flew in the air, and was caught expertly by the tip between two slender fingers. Faustus stared for a moment, trying to take in the sudden turn of events.

Before him stood Kassandra El'rouke, the Bandit Queen.

"Nice try." She said coldly, her hazel eyes burning into his. In her other hand, she held a long whip, which was still half-coiled around his blade.

"Kassandra." He voiced.

She sniffed. "Well, glad you still remember. It's been a long time."

He stepped towards her; she calmly pulled out a loaded bow gun and pointed it in his face.

Faustus paused, and let his arms fall to his sides.

"That's a good boy." She said mockingly, her voice tinged with loathing.

Faustus stared at the arrow a few feet from his forehead. "What do you want?"

"Oh, nothing, I just happened to pass by your slaughter-fest on my way east. Nice skills, though you could use some anger management."

There was silence, the howling of the wind chorused by the branches of leafless trees scraping against each other.

"I really _should_ kill you." Kassandra pondered aloud. The gun's aim did not waver.

"You know, back when I last checked on the hostage system, dainty damsels like you tended to be on the _receiving_ end." Faustus said, his foot slowly inching to the left.

"You lied." She said again.

Faustus raised a confused eyebrow. "What?"

"You lied. You said you could give only death."

The necromancer nodded. "So I did. What about it?"

Kassandra motioned with her head to the ruined town behind them. "The boy." She said, as she lowered her bow. "You gave him life."

Faustus was silent. "Is this supposed to be some kind of joke?"

Kassandra paused, and gave a frustrated growl. "Forget it." She said, as she flicked his blade back at him. He caught and twirled it before driving the edge into its sheath. "There's your knife back. Now tell me what you're doing."

The necromancer furrowed his brow. "What do you mean?"

Kassandra crossed her arms, clipping her coiled whip onto her belt. "You've been traveling the continent searching for something. I want to know what it is."

Faustus turned away, ignoring the question.

"It's Ghül, isn't it?"

Faustus turned back. "No." he said after a moment. "No, not just him. He is to be the first, but never the last."

Kassandra smirked. "Like I said, I should kill you, but I want to kill _him_ more."

Faustus hesitated uneasily.

"Are you suggesting-"

The former bandit queen said nothing.

The necromancer finally gave a sigh of frustration. "All right."

She smiled. "Well, lead the way, then."

Vultures and flies were already beginning to set in on the smorgasbord of decaying bodies, picking on strips of grey meat and intestines and flitting away silently into the night.

† † †

For the seventh time in one hour, Leon Baskerville cursed at himself for undertaking the mission.

His horse snorted under the weight of its rider's luggage; two worn leather suitcases hung raggedly on either side, topped by Leon's swanky form, clad in black, and looking equally haggard. His knees thumped on his steed's belly with every step; he steadied himself again on the oversized saddle.

The moon shined down onto the snow-white hair of his horse, giving it a ghostly air that seemed rather unfitting; cold gusts carried withered leaves form the dying branches and carried them through the night air, to rest on the damp, hard dirt. They crunched and crackled mutely alongside the mare's steady hoof beats. Leon listened silently, and sighed; he could see his own breath in the pale light of dusk. The chill of the coming winter froze his innards and nearly annulled his brain.

He shifted uncomfortably, and finally slipped off his saddle, landing rather inelegantly onto the dirt; Leon pulled himself to his feet and dusted off his clothes, turning to face the horse.

"Don't go anywhere, y'hear me? I'm gon' be _right back_. I'm just goin' to the bathroom. And ah better find ma shit still here." He said to it, gesturing to the numerous suitcases on the stallion's back. The horse simply snorted and tried to bite him.

His boots scuffed the ground, treading over dead leaves and thick roots growing in upon each other out of the soft ground; to him, any dark spot at the moment was an ideal place to relieve himself. He strode further from the path and deeper into the wilting forest, and with every step, silence took further hold of his surroundings. He could barely hear a sound among the wilderness. The leaves shining in the moonlight formed shadowed words on the dirt. The wind wound its way through the branches, sending a chill up his spine; dead leaves snapped under his feet.

'_Shoulda brought a jacket.'_ He thought to himself, as he kicked the dirt.

A minute later, he strode back between the darkened trees, their bare branches towering meters above his head; a flock of silhouetted crows circled in the glow of the moonlight. The light leaked through the blanket of trees in thin rays.

There was a snap, and the sound of something heavy collapsing onto hard dirt.

_Krch_.

"Hm?" Leon craned his head back towards the clearing.

_Krch. Krch._

A faint scraping and dragging barely reached his ears.

_Krch. Krch_.

"_Hey_!" he shouted to the air.

The sounds stopped for a moment.

_Krch. Krch. Krch._

The sound began to get farther away. Leon ground his teeth silently, his breath becoming shallow. He bent low, his eyes darting from side to side in the near darkness.

Several seconds later, Leon burst from the thick tangle of dying overgrowth and trees, out onto the crude beaten path. He was breathing heavily, an urgent look on his face; his movements were stiff and uneasy. Dread began to creep into the corner of his psych, whispering terrifying possibilities and scenarios into his head.

The first thing he noticed was that his horse was missing. Leon bit his lip.

Then he saw the trail of blood.

Barely noticeable in the glare of the moon, a dark, wet splotch rested on the ground a few yards from his feet, leading off in a slightly thinner trail down the road, staining the leaves a dark shade of grey.

As Leon squinted into the distance, he could see the trail winding furtively between the trunks, glistening and fresh; the smell of fresh blood and parched dirt was pungent in the air. And the tingling up his spine gave him the impression that something wanted him to follow in its tracks.

"Ah, _hell_ no."

For the eighth time in one hour, Leon Baskerville cursed at himself for undertaking the mission.

Instinctively, he drew forth his katana from its sheath; it shined brightly with the glow fine silver alloy. Notches had been scratched lightly into the hilt, marking each life the blade had claimed; Leon intended to add one more notch to the count before dawn.

From what he could tell, it was going to be a **_long_** night.

† † †

From within the wide room, the brittle flickering of candles and the pungent scent of incense was evident in the air. The faint light spread to every part of the chamber; silent shadows danced and shook, playing out their hopelessly random patterns. The walls were adorned with elaborate murals and stained glass, arranged into erratic portraits of men long dead. Their images were dark and gloomy from the shadows of the wilting growth that lay outside the walls of the church; candlelight threw its beams far into the depths of the night.

…_and by His hand, Man sprang forth, rife with wonder at the stunning world He had crafted for them… _

The candles sat in neat rows, lined up neatly beside one another, one behind the other. They sat in giant silver steel holders on all sides of the room; melted wax dripped from their wilting forms and sizzled on the cool metal. It was the only sound that disturbed the quiet sanctuary; the small rows of light led the way to the height of the chamber. A statue stood precariously atop a lit altar, the detailed workings of its anatomy outlined in the light of the hour; the face was that of a man, its blank eyes staring out into the room, taking in the sight of the same scene it had bore witness to for many centuries and counting. It was thin and angular, with a young face and trimmed hair, dressed in the flowing robes of a priest; the folds in the cloth and robe were carved directly into the opposing wall. Dust had formed a thick carpet upon the floor, and in the center knelt a man.

…But what cruelty is it that even as He delivered us, He knew we were doomed. 

He bowed low before the altar, his back calmly straight and his brow furrowed in deep concentration; a head of brown hair was arranged straight off at the top, matching his sharp goatee extending down his lower chin. Thin, unremarkable shoulders were set in tight knots, under a thin robe and shirt marked in deep black. There was ascetic yet uneasy air floating about him, as he sat deep in meditation; even his firm expression suggested a man of the cloth

The candle flames flickered. In the dead silence, he could hear the voice of his god:

…_Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor standeth in the way of sinners, nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful..._

The blood dripped slowly from the severed horse heart he cradled in his hands, oozing red from every pore; it flowed down his cold skin. He knelt before the altar, the blood from the woman's severed heart dripping onto the moss-grown stone floor, an offering up to Him. The calm, gentle eyes of the statue gazed beyond his prostrate figure.

…_But his delight is in the law of the Lord; and in his law doth he meditate day and night…_

"Thou shalt not stray from the path ordained by the Lord…" The man uttered, the words forcing themselves up from between his icy lips. The words were answered with silence.

…_And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth his fruit in his season; his leaf shall not wither; and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper..._

"The ungodly are not so; but are like the chaff which the wind driveth away…" He continued, delivering his soliloquy to the god seen only to his eyes. His breathing was shallow, and beads of sweat dripped from his brow. The blood of the horse continued to stain the ground.

…_Therefore, the ungodly shall not stand in the judgment, nor sinners in the congregation of the righteous. _

The man shuddered again. "For the Lord knoweth the way of the righteous; but the way of the ungodly shall perish." He faltered, his arms offering the bloody organ up to Him.

He waited for the recurring voice of his God.

The candles flickered.

_Speak._

The man gritted his teeth, as he searched for the right words. He rolled his tongue in his mouth.

"Lord, forgive me, for I have sinned."

The blood flowed further.

Hath you come to demand that which you are due? 

"…"

_Should I deny your right to it? Would you rebel against me?_

He shook his head slowly. "Never. I would-"

_Do not lie!_

Silence. The candles flickered. A howling gale knocked at the thick walls.

I can taste your terror. Do you possibly fear that I would punish you? 

"…"

_I would not. The blood of your wife and infant offered to me has insured your life._

"I stand in your judgment."

The candles flickered.

Can you feel it? 

The man raised his head, resting the bloody heart upon the altar.

Can you feel the disturbance? 

He nodded.

_He is coming._

"What shalt I do?"

The candles flickered.

_I give you one final task._

"Yes?"

_Keep Gabriel under your protection. Do not allow Mephistopheles to reach her._

One of the candles behind him wavered for a brief moment, and burnt out. The man's eyes shot wide open; two cold pupils pierced the silent air.

"Of course."

He slowly rose to his feet, turning his gaunt figure over to the other end of the long hall. The man strode down the corridor, with its high walls and distant rafters. Images of starlit angels and ancient clergy flew by his eyes; he paid them no heed, his eyes set upon the far end of the cathedral hall.

There, bathed in the pale light of a thousand blazing candles, lay an angel.

The light reflected off the angel's curved features, though they appeared pale and weak in the dim illumination. In some ways, she was very much like the statue; her thin, elegant arms were bound firmly to a thick marble totem by heavy shackles winding their way around her elbows and held them in a locked position around it; the bonds wore deep gashes into her wrists. The angel's shining wings protruded from the back of her spine; each was at least teen feet in length, covered with soft feathers. They were constricted with webs of ropes laced around the bones and driven into the ground with iron stakes; they shuddered under the tight bonds that kept them in contact to the dusty floor.

Likewise, her legs and feet were fastened to the pillar through chains wrapped around the pillar that pinned both of her legs tightly against the cold, hard stone and kept her toes a foot off the ground. A tight collar was affixed around her neck that restricted her from moving her head…not that doing so would have done her much good; a cloth blindfold and gag kept her silent.

The man smiled and approached the angel, surveying her pitiful state. He strode up to her and stroked back her locks of silky white hair.

"Don't worry, my sweet. I won't let _anything_ happen to you."

Through the gag, the angel only let out a whimper.

**-----------------------------------------**

**So, you get it now, right? The mystery of the huge concealable scythe has been solved. The stiletto _is _the scythe, but it can only transform when there's fresh blood on it. It also costs mana. There, happy? It's pretty easy to understand, it's kind of like a fighting system you'd find in a video game.**

**P.S. No, Faustus is _not_ a cutter, nor a pyromaniac. **

**P.P.S. I am not a Goth.**

_**Mail time: **_

**speed- dude…get a clue.**

**mad-man- Thanks again, mad-man. By the way, I only said I wasn't surprised by your reviews for my previous story because you review, like, every Diablo fiction that has been on the site for over a month. **

**Clarke667- For some reason, I've always been expecting a call from SE. I would love to add this story to the archives, except that there are some rather dominant people on that site who haven't exactly been my buddies in the past. Also, the e-mail address got erased; the review engine doesn't accept links, or does it? Anyway, send it over to me, and I'll get back to you on that.**

**Hunty- I would love to help on your stories! Just send it over to me at any time, along with directions of what you want me to help you on. The same goes for everyone else who needs some assistance.**

**Anyway, Eddy is getting his own account and switching his e-mail address, so check him out. Here's a preview of his works in progress.**

**Killer Lee by Edward 'Prinzo' – Home Misc Crossovers **

A less-than-normal Asian kid in an even crazier world, Dwayne 'Killer' Lee is the essence of randomness. Ranging from Diablo to the realm of Harry Potter, watch as Lee puts the dis on every one of your favorite (or not) fiction characters…and then some.

**Prinzo's new e-mail is aznb05 (that's 'b – _zero_ – five, people!)**

**Until next time,**

**David 'Zhang' at Hill Prod.**


	9. New Blood

**I do not own Diablo. That belongs to Blizzard Entertainment…not to say that I couldn't write better Diablo novels if it _did_ belong to me…**

Bobathon: Alright, cameras roll in 3…2…1… 

**And we're back with another chapter of our gothpunk story, Priest of the Dead! It's been a while, we know, but rest assured that this story is still going strong. We've made heavy changes in the past chapters, speaking of which:**

A heavy portion of story has been added to Chapter 4; it is mainly flashbacks of Kassandra's mind, revealing some of her history.

There. That's all the pre-game announcements.

_IMPORTANT: CHAPTERS 4 AND 8'S ENDINGS HAVE BEEN HEAVILY EDITED AND REMODELED READ BOTH (IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER, OR COURSE) BEFORE YOU EVEN THINK ABOUT STARTING IN ON THIS CHAPTER._

Random Scenes of Chaos from my Head:

;( …

I am currently entranced by the soundtracks to Soul Calibur II & III. I tried to record it on the radio, but I discovered afterwards that you have to press the 'Play' button after you press 'Record', and so I didn't get a goddamn minute of it!

Ah, well. There's always illegal pirating and downloading, I guess. It's like marijuana.

Flash Judgement!-

!Murdoc Niccals vs. Patrick Stump!

Cast your vote today!

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

**Diablo II: Priest of the Dead™**

†

**-8-**

'_O, Gilgamesh, wither do you wander? _

_Life, which you seek, you shall never find, _

_For when the gods created man, they let_

_Death be his share, and withheld life_

_In their own hands.'_

_-The Epic of Gilgamesh_

Faustus watched the night with silent habituality, as if he was wrestling with some kind of momentous idea in his head.

It pissed her off. He hadn't said a word since they left the town; he hated every moment of it. She hated his attitude of somber grievance, like he was so misunderstood by everyone else in the world, like he had been given a divine task that made set him aside from other humans.

"What are you looking for?"

Faustus continued to say nothing.

"Damnit, are you even breathing!" she shouted to him, her annoyance quite apparent. "God, you must be the most stoned sonofabitch I've ever met."

Faustus flexed his neck and brought his gaze back down to earth, kicking his boots slightly on the dirt. Kassandra tried to read the expression on his face, but his mask of indifference seemed impenetrable. Of course, she was expecting him to be this way; he probably couldn't even remember where he knew her from. The tired lines on his face remained, adding to his default mood: silent.

"Maybe you ought to get some rest." He said to her; his tone showed marginal interest in her presence.

"Well, wouldn't you like that, a chance to get away. I swear, if you're not here in the morning, I will hunt you down and kill you." She said, revealing the barrel of her bow gun and the glint of a loaded bolt.

"Mm, frightening." Fausts said, nodding, as if he were actually considering the thought. A few seconds later, he spoke again, staring back at her. "Of course, I _could_ just strangle you in your sleep before departing."

His voice was as cold as ice; from the way he said it, she could immediately tell that he meant it. Still, she would not be stared down; she simply looked up at him, her eyes calm.

"I knew a guy who tried that, once." She said softly, her lips forming into a thin-lipped smile.

No more needed to be said about that.

After a moment, Faustus resumed craning his head and looking at the stars.

Kassandra growled. "My _god_, what the hell are you looking for?"

He lowered his gaze again.

"Heaven."

"What?" Kassandra said, raising her brow. "You believe in that shit?"

Faustus simply nodded. "I guess so, princess. It's up there, somewhere. And where it is, He is watching."

She snorted. "He's always watching, but He doesn't really do much else, does He."

He shrugged. "I guess we'll never know until we die." The tattered duster covering his lanky body billowed in the wind.

"Well, if Heaven is so much more glorious than this world, everybody should just commit suicide."

Faustus turned to her; his eyes were even colder than before, and his voice was hard. The night wind seemed to get just a bit colder as he fixed her with his gaze, reprimanding her remark.

"Sometimes," he said, "self-destruction is harder than you'd think."

_He stood the pool of his own blood, watching as it flowed out in thin rivulets; the scene of chaos was reflected perfectly off of the pool's surface. The burnt and charred wrecks of the ancient stone towers and battlements, the wood that was set aflame quenched by blood. Pain wracked his body like never before. He plunged the dagger further into himself, wishing for it all to end, for this nightmare to play itself out, and to find himself lying under verdant cover of the blooming spring forest, the nests of songbirds singing merrily amidst the green leaves shining in sunlight, to break the agonizing silence that held him in its grip._

Faustus grimaced slightly.

_But they did not sing._

Kassandra halted; her eyes darted from side to side, searching the darkness.

Something was wrong.

_Numbness began to take him; he turned his head. There, a few feet away, the songbirds lay, their eyes bulging as their tiny little feathers ran with blood from deep gashes upon their necks. Tiny little talons lay gnarled and broken._

_They did not sing for him. _

"Princess." He said, his voice dry and slow.

_The scene began to fade out; another drop found its way into the puddle, creating soft ripples within; another second marked itself on the clock of death. Blood found blood, and each amended the other. _

"What?" she asked, looking up curiously from the soft dew forming on the blades of grass. Her eye twitched. "And stop calling me that."

_He knew this was the only way to end it; he could not go on, not like this. He saw all of the faces branded into his mind, laughing, weeping, screaming…their faces were clear, but they were gone. Their voices called out to him, beckoned him, sang to him, pleaded him, swore at him, but he erased them. _

"It's not safe here." He said in the same dead tone.

_He would join them soon. _

Kassandra looked quizzical. "Uh…"

_The pain was beyond imagination; he screamed, trying to end the throbbing, the thoughts. To end it all. He saw his own reflection on the pool, but it was not he. Was it? The thin, weakened youth he saw was only a mockery of what he was, and could have been…_

"Maybe I should get some rest." She said, unnerved by his cold silence. She hastily gathered up her bow gun, and stood.

_He heard the faint voice. The thoughts were purged from his head. The agony lessened; he felt his blood burn. In the pain of a lifetime, he died._

Even as she faded into the shadows, Faustus could feel the fury burning inside his skull. It was Him; He wanted to kill. In fact, he could hardly resist the urge.

_He died._

He hungered for the woman's blood.

'_Johann…'_

She would taste _delicious_.

_He died._

† † †

Amid the torrents of rain, the cross stood valiant.

Faustus stared out over to the imposing church tower, nestled into the city below the cliff on which he stood; his coattails fluttered in the wind. The dark storm clouds closed in rapidly from the east. Far in the distance, he could hear the faint sounds of creaky carriages and drunken laughter. From behind, he heard only the rustling of weeds, as Kassandra stomped out from the muddy plain.

"Thanks for waiting up." She muttered, flinging strands of hair from her face and hoisting her heavy bow gun over her shoulder. Her hair was wet and slick in the evening rain, and her clothes were soaked many times over. It seemed the Queen of the Desert was not very accustomed to the weather farther west.

"Acknowledged." Faustus said robotically; it was obvious that his attention was elsewhere.

Kassandra began to say something else, but Faustus turned and put a light finger to his lips, before pointing his finger to the province that lay before their eyes.

"Look over there." He said simply.

She muttered something under her breath and stared down from the cliff into the valley, and the grand city that sprawled within; even in the blinding rain, it was magnificent, a seamless network of towering cathedrals and dark stone buildings lining the streets in uniform manner. Dark and red-slated roofs slanted and sloped yards above the city heights. The fog in the distance transformed the inner city establishments into a blend of glowing lights and soaring rooftops. Storm crows littered the skies, dancing in the pouring of rain before settling onto their distant perch.

That was where Faustus pointed.

The crows roosted calmly upon the dripping buttresses on the dome of an immense monastery, dark and placid in the sheets of rain. The dim shape of a rounded grand cathedral could be seen, with huge spires jutting out from all thee corners of the grand structure. On the uppermost peak of the web of support beams, elaborate pillars, and stone gargoyles, a cross cast its shadow onto the buildings below; Faustus could see it at eye level, despite the cliff being over fifty feet above the city. Moreover, the city itself seemed to be built and designed around the sprawling monument. Streams of water leaked from the many mouths of the gargoyles carved into the sides with fine polished marble.

The thing was built from thousands of finely-cut marble slabs, each three feet in length and a foot in width. They were secured together in tight crevices, with growths of ivy already beginning to creep up the sides of the monastery chapel. Up in the higher, levels, however, the darkened windows had views of the entire cityscape. Winding staircases slithered up through the channels and open corridors of the building's many floors; he could see shapes coming and descending through the stairways. It was clear that it was a center for community activity.

As Faustus looked up, he could see that even the sky seemed to bend and swirl to a distorted vortex above the cross. Rain cast itself in waves onto the ground. The crows cawed and set alight, their beating wings carrying them far, far into the distance, their dark, fragile forms illuminated by the flashes of lightning piercing the sky. With those flashes, Faustus could make out the words that were bled into the plaque set upon the church balcony. There was no doubt; upon the tablet proclaimed the words:

Kingdom Hall of The Saint Augustine VI 

Those words made his blood burn. He stared a moment loner at the solitary cross set upon the looming church tower, and turned to Kassandra, who watched him with lingering expectancy.

"Let me guess…_that's_ where we have to go, right?" she asked with a hint of anticipation.

Faustus nodded. "Such a smart girl."

She shrugged off the comment. "Could be worse, I guess."

Kassandra didn't really think he could come up with a good retort to that, and he didn't. He simply craned his neck back towards the quarry, and walked past her, into the thick of weeds again.

"Come on, we should cover some distance before the storm gets worse." He called back, pushing aside the branches of a dead tree.

Kassandra snorted and trudged in after him.

† † †

The brush and foliage was thick against him; it tugged at his coat and impeded his steps with dead leaves and gnarled roots. Rainwater bled from the sky and dripped from the overgrowth; the dirt below him softened into thick mud that splattered over his clothes. In less than an hour, things had gotten from worse to downright crappy. Leon angrily hacked away another low branch; it fell to the mud with a thump. With every passing minute, it seemed less likely that he was going to find his missing cargo in the progressing storm; the trail of blood he had been following was thinning, and was already washing away with the prospect of the rain pooling in dirty puddles amid deep rock beds.

He tripped on another dead trunk, and stumbled to his knees in a pool of deep muck.

"S…sonova…" 

Leon resisted the nagging urge to scream and go on a rampage against the dying forest that twisted and grew in the charred dirt around him. Actually, he didn't resist at all. He picked himself up and screamed, lashing out at a thick tree behind him. He punched it hard with his bare knuckles, kicked it with his steel-tipped boots and ripping off chucks of hard bark. Splinters pierced his skin; they bled. Thought bites rushed through his head.

_Damn. _

_Horse._

_Wood._

_Bad._

_Wet._

_Rain._

_Hands._

_Hurt._

_Father._

_Son._

_Of._

_A._

Leon ceased his pounding against the jagged wood, slumping over and propping himself against the thick tree. His breathing was ragged, and his bleeding knuckles were raw and stinging. Raindrops fell across his face, down his neck, onto his bare hands. They soothed the pain in his fists.

"Calm down, man." He muttered to himself, looking up into the dark skies. Clouds moved slowly over the forest.

A distant ringing of a church bell reached his weary ears.

Leon opened his eyes and scrambled to his feet, peering through the leaves and branches; farther down the valley, he could make out a dark shape, a tall spire that blended in with the darkness. Small bird-like shapes hovered above it, circling the thing like a fresh kill.

'Hey, who knows?' 

Leon moved his sore feet; he out one foot in front of the other in the soggy mud, and started towards the sounds of bells.

† † †

But even as He delivered us, He knew we were doomed. 

"…And He blessed Augustine with the offer of a holy army, and three archangels to lead them. He directed Augustine to lead His army in conquest of the heathen lands, to spread His word and His will."

_He knelt before the altar, the blood from the horse's severed heart dripping onto the moss-grown stone floor, an offering up to Him._

"Augustine would be His hand in the realm of mortals. With them, Augustine would drive the demons from the lands, and reign over a new empire. And Augustine accepted the Lord's proposition, and was christened as 'The Bringer of Light' - _Akarat_."

_The candle flames flickered. In the dead silence, he could hear the voice of his god. _

Father Von'Korvic smiled as he finished the passage, looking up into the rows full

of churchgoers. Rather _bored_ churchgoers. Someone coughed in the front.

"Amen."

"Amen." The audience echoed.

Torrents of morning rain pattered along the stained-glass windows. Von'Koric shut the tattered book; yellowed pages slammed against each other, echoing off the high ceilings. It was damp and wet in the musty air; a smell of creeping mold was pungent in the chamber. Von'Korvic was used to this atmosphere, this place. It felt like home to him, his familiar perch within the pulpit, in front of hundreds of believers ready to receive his sermons, to hear the Lord's words and be his voice, as Akarat had once been. The world needed people like them; there was simply too much evil in the world.

He continued to smile obliviously. "That will be all for this afternoon. May the Lord be with us."

The reaction was instantaneous.

As people leapt from their hard wooden benches and crammed into the narrow aisles of the cathedral, Von'Korvic turned and descended the aged stone steps, his thin shoes clacking on the hard ridges. He felt so calm, so peaceful; so was a man of the cloth, fulfilled in his duty to the Lord. He minded not to the sounds of the common peasants, for they were only sheep under His gate.

His echoing footsteps disappeared into the damp halls that wound below the cathedral.

† † †

He was right.

It was _definitely_ not safe here.

"GYAA-"

The organism's screech was cut short as Faustus drew a clean line across its veined throat – or, at least, what Faustus believed was most _likely_ to be its throat – and felt cold liquid spill forth. It was not blood, he was for certain; the liquid was too thin and icy, smelling of stale olives. The thing screeched and lunged at him, hundreds of needle-thin razors snapping at him at less than an inch away. He held it back with his foot, jabbing the knife into the bottom of the thing's jaw. It glanced off the wrinkled flesh, but something about the way it screamed, picked him up by the collar and slammed him into a tree gave him a hint that it did cause some pain.

Faustus groaned, and stumbled to his feet, feeling the bones in his back.

'_Nothing broken, so far.'_ He thought, flicking the point of his knife with his thumb. _'But hey, I'm the bringer of the end of the world; what can you expect?'_

Despite the tremendous pain wracking his body, he smiled; cackled, even.

The zombie beast stormed towards him, blood leaking from the slit in it upper body.

'_Definitely_ _not the throat.'_ Faustus told himself. _'Guess again.'_

He rolled out from under the attack, pines and nettles pulling at his coat. The beast skidded to a halt with surprising agility, its stubby little transplanted raw pig legs carrying it towards him with the velocity of a jaguar. The thing had no eyes set into its head, yet it seemed to know exactly where he was.

He might have been scared.

Or, at least, before he had died.

One part of him still was afraid. But that was the part that had died years before, a rotted memory of the fool he used to be. He no longer lived a life governed by nature or logic, or even fear. He didn't exist for those things anymore; he existed only to disembowel the next SOB in line.

He raised his dagger high. "Bring it on, motherf-"

The next instant, he was splattered with pig entrails as the cadaver erupted in flames; the pungent smell of burning fat smoked from the zombie, as it screeched and thrashed around the floor.

Kassandra stood calmly in the clearing, reloading her bow gun.

"How the hell am I supposed to get my beauty sleep with-"

Kassanrda fired another bolt for no particular reason; Faustus shielded his eyes from the bright explosion and the shower of blood and boiling fat.

"-a bunch of psychos brawling twenty feet away?" she continued, walking calmly past the remnants of the zombie, sizzling and flowing in the moist dirt. Her slippers rustled on the fallen nettles littering the ground.

Faustus shrugged. "You tell me."

Kassandra sighed, shouldering her gun, watching as Faustus turned the other way, knife in hand.

"Wait." He said, his eyes scanning the treetops.

"What?"

"Where's the other one?"

Darkness descended upon them.

Neither of them had time to scream.

† † †

- - - - - - - - - - - **Backstage** - - - - - - - - - -

Booyah! Another chapter cranked out at breakneck speed by Hill Productions.

In case you haven't figured this out, 'princess' is Faustus' pet name for Kassandra.

Ok, this is going to take quite some time…

Creates hotkey for 'Avatar of Fyre' 

Avatar of Fyre- Yes, I was quoting Will Smith for 'Ah, hell no.' Also, I don't recall _ever_ saying that I would have one of each character class in the story. So far, the only distinguishable character class is 'necromancer', and it will probably remain that way until the end of the story. Kassandra will hopefully not be perceived as an Amazon; because if she was, I would have said so. 

Tyrael will not die, mainly because this story is a prequel to the first Diablo, and he has too much to do with the official game plot, so I would be defying logic by killing him (he dies, then somehow comes back to send eight heroes to kill Diablo); I would also be risking my neck by making some obvious plot nuances when writing about him. So, no Tyrael. But fear not, there will be plenty of angel-killing nonetheless.

**Avatar of Fyre- **Ok I may be mistaken on some things, but I mean it when I say that there is no section of the story that suggests Leon and Lenov being around 9 (or were you trying to type something else?).

Gheed is nowhere in my story.

Even if he was, he would never say anything about Leon or Lenov, because I made them up about two months ago.

But he's not, which makes it stranger.

Of course, if he _was_ in my story, I would kill him the first chance that I get. Screw logic, the fatass must die.

And as for the language, I decided that it would be fun for me to add in some more modern aspects for relativity.

**Avatar of Fyre- **I like the part where you wrote this:

'_ Laughs evilly '_

'_Good, good.'_

Thanks,

-David 'Zhang' at Hill Prod.

**Avatar of Fyre-** Well, I guess we could all use some laughs while reading this story, or the gothic-ness could drive you insane. After all, look at what it did to me.

**Avatar of Fyre-** Necropheliacs shouldn't be allowed to work in morgues.

I must admit that I've never seen a necromancer with necrophobia.

By the way, thanks for the little teaser about your story. Now I can go spread lame rumors on my website forum!

Avatar of Fyre- Uh…I don't know, I'd call it '2-D's Hamburger', or something. Avatar of Fyre- Yes…for 28 years of service, to be exact. Why don't you check the Backstage column for Chapter 7 (I think. I know it's_ somewhere_.)? I have the background all posted up there. The name Faust has been used over and over for necromancers in all fantasy fics because it sounds cool. I'm sick of it. Rising Dragon- To respond to your point about Leon and Lenov being too modern, I've created this background column for Leon Baskerville. Read it, and grow wise: 

**Character Development: **

**Leon Baskerville**

I won't lie to you on this. To dish it straight out, the mainframe for Leon Baskerville's creation was taken from Sakamoto Ryuma from the popular anime Peacemaker Kurogane. Ryuma served as an inspiration because he was something that stood out from everything else in the Japanese setting mainly because he had a different skin color, he used guns, and he wore funky glasses. I wasn't to go quite so far as to use firearms as a main weapon (sadly, bow guns are as far I can push the envelope in the fantasy department), but I certainly wanted to incorporate Ryuma's hipness as a an effective main character and comic relief. Leon Baskerville was going to be a modern thug, but skilled in swordplay as Ryuma had been. His appearance also is uncannily preserved; Leon has a similar raggy ponytail hairstyle, moderate features, and slight goatee as well as the complete black clothing. My aim was to give him a weird look, have him use a lot of slang, and act different from all other fantasy characters. When I did, a lot of people objected to his identity, which gave me the unrelenting notion that I had succeeded! Some said stuff about Leon being too modern; but then again, is it any less strange to see a black samurai singing the 'Star-Spangled Banner' in Imperial Tokyo?

Next stop: Steampunk, baby!

**Spike Sparrow-** If you like this story, you might want to check out my other latest development in HellBoy. At least it will keep you entertained as we wait another half a year for the painfully slow progress of author Project XII1.

**MAD-MAN- **Were you trying to say æthereality? If you were, I will tell you the truth, which is that I have no hell of an idea how the stiletto transforms, either; it just simply occurred to me as an interesting idea at the time.

P.S. Yeah, a cutter is a person who inflicts pain upon themselves as a temporary release from narcotic withdrawal.

P.P.S. A lot of this stuff I write comes from being bored, playing basketball, and going to the local bookstore, where I have to tilt my head 90 degrees to read the titles of the shelved books. That, combined with whatever fumes they put in the bookstore's oxygen supply to make you want to buy books, is what gives me most of the ideas that appear in here. Hell, I stopped coming up with new ideas for this two months ago, because I would have to make this a forty-chapter story in order to fit them all in without seeming awkward.

That's it for the mail.

I'll have Chapter 10 up sooner or later…in the meantime, I'll be making vigorous grammatical and technical corrections to previous chapters.


	10. Rest Of Me Is Dead

Hi, guys.

Yes, it has certainly been a long, long time since I have made contact with most of you. I could probably feed you some lame sob story about a family member dying or something, but it's really just me being very, very lazy. I'm sorry.

The following chapter has been sitting on my laptop for half a year waiting to be uploaded.

On with the show.

**-----------------------------------------**

™**Diablo II: Priest of the Dead**

†

**-10-**

'_It is a sin to believe evil in others, but it is seldom a mistake.'_

-J.L. Mencken

_The dead beckon me._

_I awaken to a dreadful existence, though I had prayed that this day would never come, when I would have to leave my rest and join this world once again, for both my sake and theirs. _

_I am a threat to be feared, though it was not my decision to be this way. _

_I understand that. The archangels understand that. They must, for why else would they have locked me away for two centuries? I must thank them for that gift. But already, I can feel the power of my imprisonment beginning to weaken; Soon, I will be forced to walk the earth again in my torment._

_Gabriel is dying._

_Yes, I can feel her warm blood. Slowly, bit by bit, her wails of agony install further pain upon me; she will be dead soon. I can only imagine what pain she is experiencing, for my mind does not allow me to gain complete consciousness. Her bond to my slumber is already fraying, ready to snap. Her essence carries over to me. _

_She is not dying in battle. She, too, is a captive, though to something completely different._

_Though my eyes have not glimpsed light for countless years, I can see that Lasziel and Augustine are holding onto me, keeping me in my slumber. But should I slip any farther into the darkness, I will lose control. _

_My wretched husk of a body will burst forth from the lakes of fire in a shower of flames, burning down all that is living. _

_The plagues of locusts that shall overrun the countryside will make feast of the flock and the shepherd, and make drink from the sweet, red nectar that flows within their veins._

_I shall fill the place with dead bodies; the stench of death will rise to the heavens. Their tears shall create seas. Their blood shall melt mountains._

_And after the last man has fallen, the last woman raped, I shall stand atop the high mount made from the meat, bones and blood of this earth; mine eyes alone can behold the final sight of burning oceans and reddened rivers, a world that not even the denizens of Hell would care to grace. _

_I will weep._

'_**Awaken**.' says He._

_My eyes open after so much time._

'_**Destroy**.'_

_I have no choice but to obey._

† † †

The chains rattled.

"A bit past the nerve…" Von'Korvic mumbled to himself. His eyes remained fixed on his tiny knife, and on Gabriel. Moonlight cast a solitary beam of illumination on his activities.

The angel jolted again; a muffled scream escaped her lips. Von'Korvic paused; he set down the scalpel on the operating table and inspected her wrist shackles. They were firm and heavy, connecting to an array of thick chains that wound every inch of Gabriel's body and kept her immobile. Though the angel struggled, he was fairly certain that the sounds of her protest would not escape these walls, however old and unstable they may be. Von'Korvic nodded and returned to his work; he picked up a thin hook and put it to the skin surrounding the feathers of her broken wings. Droplets of blood welled forth as he gently pressed the edge into her flesh and traced a deep circle of incisions around her wing joints. Not taking his eyes from the procedure, Von'Korvic wiped away the thick liquid with a his gloves and drew forth his scalpel, gazing at the clean reflection of his face in the blade, so pure and calm, like the surface of a pond.

Slowly inserting the point of the hook under the layer of bleeding skin, he carefully brought the utensil back to the left, peeling back the flesh to reveal a fresh red network of pulsating muscle underneath. Von'Korvic seized another device – a long, thin needle – from the table, and brought it up to the flesh like a pen, softly prodding and poking at various exposed muscles.

He leaned forward and brought his lips to the angel's ear.

"Tell me if this hurts." He whispered, eyeing the slick skin anchored onto the hook.

He jabbed the needle into the muscles.

His prisoner instantly reacted; she let out an agonized shriek through her gag, thrashing wildly at the bindings. The shackles groaned and pulled taught. The chains rattled.

"Mm…missed the vein." The pastor mused to himself, in the midst of his victim's cries.

Von'Korvic casually set down his surgical implements and rose to his feet, circling the bound angel, examining her. His cold, hard eyes were like polished marbles set into a face of stone; even from beneath her blindfold, Gabriel inched away from his chilling gaze.

Von'Korvic simply shook his head sadly.

"Poor thing." He sighed, as he raised his boot and forcefully kicked her in her face, held low by a thin steel collar. Gabriel squealed, the blow knocking her head sideways and choking her against the chains. From beneath her restraints, she coughed and choked up blood; this brought further pain, as the hook inserted into her back pulled further at her skin.

"Hurts, doesn't it?"

Gabriel said nothing. He kicked her again.

"I asked you a question."

Gabriel stiffly nodded as far as her leash would allow.

"So, is it painful?"

She nodded again.

Von'Korvic turned away and let out a deep breath; he strode away from her broken form, towards a huge, darkened mural at the far end of the chamber that splayed the length of the buttresses hung among the rafters. It was comprised of stained glass of a thousand different colors, but in the wake of dusk, the only color than reflected from the image was red. At the foot of the mural's center, Von'Korvic stood, merely a thin, sharp shadow. Behind him, the likenesses of the three angels of Heaven were imprinted into glass. In the center, the image of Gabriel rested; her magnificent wings spread outwards, her hair pure and white. Von'Korvic crossed his arms behind his waist and lifted his eyes towards heaven, taking in the picture; he grunted and let out a sigh of disgust. He began to speak in a clear voice, that which he used in his many sermons.

"When I was younger, I used to gaze up at this image, and be struck with awe; I was foolish then, not as I am now. I used to think that, so long as I was within these walls, I would forever be under the protection of the Lord." He turned back towards Gabriel; her head was hung low, but he could tell she was listening.

"But I soon learned the error of my ways. I encountered another deity, promising greater power than even that of God. To think back on how much of an idiot I had been to have doubt in that offer." Von'Korvic paused for a moment, lowering his eyes from the blood-red fresco to the dull floors, as if he were searching for better words.

"I suppose I needed proof; that is what all young people need: something to base their stake on. I asked for it, though I would never dare to go that far this day. It was a sign of my wavering faith, really, that I could begin to lose trust in the ways of the Lord."

"I asked for the evidence. And I earned it, at the price of the blood of my wife and child."

Gabriel shuddered.

"It was painful, you know; far more painful than the agony that you have suffered." He said, his tone suddenly cold. She could feel his gaze upon her once again. "But, in the end, I finally earned my true prize. My god had finally given me evidence of his superiority to God."

His eyes flared like diamonds.

"That evidence is _you_."

Gabriel did nothing.

"Yes, it was true, I realized. I had indeed found a power Greater than the Lord. For how great must this god be, to bring _you_, once the mythical idol of my faith, down in chains before my feet? _That_ is the power I have inherited." Von'Korvic nodded. "Now you see how painful it was for me, to let go of my future for the power to rewrite it, to slay my wife and babe in cold blood for His name's sake." His tone intensified. "So, before I return your soul back to into hands of the one Lord who will weep for you, I will have you experience every bit of pain that I suffered to earn my place under His hand." He turned his head upwards again, his hand clasped tightly.

He could see the angel's face turn slightly pale.

As he returned to his stool behind her and went to work with his hook and scalpel, he could hear her mouth begin to form words, but that was lost within the muffled screams that soon shook the walls once again.

† † †

_The stars in the night were distant and faint; though Faustus knew that they were actually aflame, they seemed, to him, cold and silent. They were like dead husks hanging in the sky. _

_Prying his eyes from the stars outside the flap of his tent, he returned to the piles of parchment that lay before him, tattered and thick; blotches of ink were apparent on them, amidst dozens of diagrams of bodily anatomy. Faustus sighed and adjusted his thin eyeglasses on the crook of his nose. He did not have a Roman nose, like his father, long and bridged. It was like his mother's; of course, now that both of these blood relations lay in their graves, Faustus could not really recall the facial features of either of them._

_He stopped pondering the matter and picked up a small sheet of parchment from the table. It was a diagram of a canine skull; he peered in close and read the small letters crudely printed among the details._

"_Hmm…" he muttered, raising his quill and scribbling down a line of notes in his journal, open before the glow of the wilting candle. Another drop of melted wax crawled down onto the hard wood of the desk. _

_He raised another diagram, this one of a human skull; after a moment, he flipped back several pages of his notebook and scribbled out several sentences, hastily rewriting them at the top of the page, as his other hand traced a circle around the curve of the skull on the parchment, so smooth and perfect. The journal was old and torn, the pages yellow with age. Upon its many pages, millions of archaic characters came together to spell out words, incomprehensible, yet perfectly legible to Faustus. He skimmed the page to the last paragraph, the gleam in his eyes betraying his extreme thirst for knowledge. His finger stopped at a short passage scrawled into the margin. _

_After pondering it for a while, Faustus thought he might go check on Donovan. _

_Shaking his head, Faustus blew out the candle; last wisps of smoke slowly fled away into the night, blending into the shadows, and ceasing to exist._ (**1**)

-----------------------------------------

**(1) – This is a flashback, just to clear up any confusion.**

**-------------------Backstage-----------------**

**Just to clear up any confusion, when I said I'd have this up sooner or later, I definitely meant later.**

**Sorry, no extra features this time. But next time, I promise. And it'll be up soon, you can count on that. So, yeah, sorry to all my fans out there. I hope you haven't lost interest, because I still have a whole lot of the story to tell before I lay it to rest.**

**Dragonspeak – I figured it was a better version of the chapters; I appreciate your praise. I revise a lot.**

**Reaper613 – Thanks so much; I needed that emotional boost because I have such a huge ego.**

**Robin F. Shirewood- Hello, headache.**

**Until next time.  
**

**Dave.**


	11. The Minion

And yet again, it's time for another chapter. I lost track of time, but I'm sure that this wasn't as late as the previous one. I did a lot of brainstorming on this segment of the story arc, because I was torn over dividing a single dialogue into multiple paragraphs in the last part. 

**Scenes of Random Chaos:**

Christopher Columbus was famous for sailing the Hudson River in his ship, the _Mayflower,_ which he used to circumnavigate the globe before purchasing Louisiana from Napoleon and building a wall around it to keep out the Mexicans.

Did I leave anything out? Mm…no, I don't think so… 

--------------------------------------

**Diablo II: Priest of the Dead™**

†

**-11-**

Silent in the darkness, the brittle leaves of the tree were marked in blood.

Not that one could tell, at a glance; the leaves were already beginning to redden with the coming of an early winter, and their hues ranged form a calm red to truculent shades of green. The calm waves of wheat and barley that sprouted and grew from the sides of the rich hills that lay outside the town would soon be ripe for an early harvest. Not that anyone cared much for that sort of thing; it was simply a thing that was observed, no less, no more. But, as each second passed, the fields began to glow a bright gold, shimmering with the rays of the rising sun.

The sun rose from behind the mountains and bled its rays to reveal the aftermath of the night.

In between the pure white of the rolling plains and the fiery hues of the autumn leaves, a deep patch of red marked the traces of a confrontation that, evidently, someone lost.

From down the hillside, the sounds of distant voices carried over the plains by the soft winds; a few white petals fluttered in the air, their smells still vibrant in the spring bloom.

But as the day awoke, the scent of bloodshed was already pungent over the city below.

† † †

The streets were bustling with activity as the pair of thin forms entered the gates of the town; one was undoubtedly feminine, the delicate curves of her body covered by a thin cloth soaked in mud. Her step was slow and tired, as if on a journey that had taken longer than she had expected; in fact, a guess wouldn't have been far from the truth.

The other was decisively the stranger of the two; he had thin arms that hung at his sides, clothed in leather gloves. The glint in his eyes were like cold, empty diamonds, hiding an inner fire that burned like the midnight sun; barely recognizable, but ominous all the same. His movements were stiff and strange, but he seemed to move with speed unmatched to the steps he took; he seemed to glide effortlessly through the crowded streets with snake-like grace as he raised his fedora and gazed upon the towering spires of the distant monastery, the intentions in his eyes of any but an tortured man.

"Ugh…Christ, it looked closer from the cliff." Kassandra mumbled, half-heartedly swatting at a fly that didn't seem to be there.

"Not far now." Faustus said in monotone; his voice seemed distant and nulled. He did not pause in his stride, unyielding, yet with a quiet calmness that preceded him ever so slightly, only a quiet shadow pausing amidst the holy giants.

Even as his boots made steady pace upon the roads, his movements became ever more sudden and erratic; sharp turns and uneven steps marked him ever so slightly out of range of Kassandra's frustrated cries. With each advancing second, he seemed to grow more faint; his form flitted like a shadow, then even less.

"Like shit…" she muttered; rolling her tongue as the air burned her lungs, she began to realize that she wouldn't mind at all if the rain started up again…

"Faustus?"

There came no reply.

"_Damn_…now where the hell did _he_ go?"

Shadows passed over the skyline; dark and fleeting without form, yet somehow immaculate in nature. The streets were beginning to thicken with people, their voices the noise in the sky; separate and unique, but bound with anonymity.

The rain started up again.

† † †

Leon's knuckles were still bleeding as he wandered quite aimlessly into the desolate outskirts of the town; the rain stung his wounds but soothed his aching, little by little, like the words to a song, each note as pure as the sky, and forgotten.

"…_hope that we feel this…feel this way forever…you can plan a pretty picnic…(**1**)"_ he mused to himself, the song coming back to back to him, flowing one word at a time.

He paused, looking up at the rain.

"…but you can't pradict tha weatha, Ms. Jackson, ten times outta nine, now if I be lyin', fine, the quickest muzzle, throw it on ma mouth and I'll decline…" he murmured; he strode in time with the beat.

"…king meets queen, then that puppy love thing, togetha dream 'bout that crib with da goodyear swing on tha oak tree…yeah, 'hope we feel like this forever...forever… forever, ever, ever, ever…"

Gazing slowly upwards, his eyes followed the path down the alleyways, through the marketplaces; they led him to the epicenter of the city, where the gigantic holy fortress cast the darkest shadows over the city. In the pale light, it looked like a huge growth, festering at the heart of the people for eons, the only light piercing the shades arranged in the shape of the cross; the storm birds soared only inches above its highest towers, cutting open the sky, and drawing forth rain like the revelations within.

"…_done got yo ass sent up the creek, G,_

Without a paddle, you left ta straddle 

_An' ride this thing on out…"_

Something moved.

He blinked.

"…uh…"

Leon stopped; the rain did not.

"…hm hm hmm…beedoo de bo bop..hm dee doo doo…" he finally managed, the words still lost somewhere else; he snapped his fingers to the beat, his footsteps like autumn leaves, bleeding mud into the sodden stone.

† † †

"…_knahm'talkinbout? Jealousy, infidelity, envy,Cheatin' to beatin', in the end to the G they be tha same thing…"_

Von K'orvic heard footsteps; yet, he did not raise his head. He did not need to. In his eyes, all men were His children. He only continued walking, his expression ever so pleasant, his eyes watching God through the torrents of rain.

"Bless you, my son." The priest whispered.

"…_so you can go on and get the hell on, you **and** your mama…"_ he was reciting quite aggressively to himself, even as he slowly became more self-aware. "Um…oh, g'day, Father." It sounded faint to his ears.

The priest smiled as he continued to pace down the path; together, they resumed striding through the rain. "Out for a stroll?"

"Sure." The youth said

He merely nodded in placated agreement. "The sun is always shining bright somewhere."

"God damn rain." He did not seem to be listening.

He could hear the footsteps keeping pace with his gallant strides, stepping into the shallow puddles; he could feel the pauses in breath as the man struggled to find the right words.

A man approached them from around the corner.

"…_bee doo bee da da la la…"_ the youth began again.

Von'Korvic said nothing. He could wait.

He could wait.

The man passed them; Von'Korvic felt a cold gale in its shadow.

There was a sudden shock; without warning, he stopped dead in his tracks, his breath catching in his throat. His footsteps faltered as he turned around, his eyes darting like an eagle, wide in their sockets.

As the man strode further away towards the center of the city, he became only silhouette, wearing a fedora and shrouded in shadows.

"Father?"

Von'Korvic blinked.

"Is something wrong?"

"No…" he uttered; his voice was weak.

"...no, nothing's wrong."

† † †

_You made the first move._

Faustus sneered as he took in the shape and form of the monolithic cathedral; it was so obvious, so pregnable. The ancient crucible deigned as the city of God seemed brittle in the downpour of rain; motionless stone seemed to quake at the approach of an impending doom. With every step he took, shapes became shadows in dim light; with every glance he gave, the place became more warped. The features seemed to change ever so slowly, concealed in the fog and rain, the very architecture changing to the whim of the caged deity within; without discernible pattern, but certainly with a motive.

He began to get…_ideas_.

"Heh…this isthe sanctuary my enemies hath wrought to bar me?"

_Take heart, pilgrim; deception is the strongest tool among men._

"Among men."

There was silence; the voice chose not to reply.

Continuing up the seemingly endless flights of stairs suspended above the rooftops of the town below, the church began to grow larger and larger with each impending step.

At the center, a towering slit loomed past the archways, like a huge cut in a slab of rock; sets of gothic steel gates guarded the entrance, and past that, there was only darkness. No light could bring hope to those within its walls; no sound escaped from the depths that the architecture no doubt stretched to.

Simple arches became towering buttresses, their spires cutting open the clouds; puny forms evolved into grotesque gargoyles, their mouths agape, dribbling ferociously. They spoke in rushes of rainwater, rancid and foul; their voices were deep, as deep as the interlay of pipes within the aging walls, yet their eyes were watching as he approached. So deep and hollow were those eyes, carved out of lifeless stone, forever imbedded into their perch. But Faustus could read them; behind the guise of senility, they hid life. They called out to him. He listened.

_Turn back_, _pilgrim_, they would say, _for the God wishes upon solitude._

"Tough shit. I'm here for Gabriel." Faustus said, tipping his fedora. A bit of rain dripped onto the stone path.

There was a silence.

_Her flesh is mine,_ they said finally, their dark shapes cringing from his presence. _She was promised to me._

"Not my problem."

He could feel the racing of thoughts within the framework; united by a single mind, they were debating their options. The humidity in the pouring rain was beginning to grow unbearable.

"Time's running out, buddy."

From the ancient throats of stillborn creatures, bitter words flowed forth, faster than the rush of the falling rain, deeper than the tongues of ageless stone.

_Woe to thee that spoilest,_ they began,_ and woe wast not spoiled…_

Taking a step back, Faustus slowly reached for his blade.

_…And dealest treacherously, and they dealt not treacherously with thee. When thou shalt cease to spoil; and when thou shalt make an end to deal treacherously… _

In the glint of moonlight, hot metal fell upon the wings of cool stone.

…_they shall deal treacherously with thee._

A deathly silence fell over the forms.

_I promise you retribution. Further of that, I cannot ensure your life._

Instantly, the gargoyles crumbled to dust, their voices carried away only past the wind.

As Faustus strode forth into the gates of the church, the faint thumps of his boots grew thinner, following his form, melting back into the shadows as the emptiness swallowed him up, and the locks slid shut with utter finality.

Warbirds flew amidst the drizzle; the darkened clouds above moved ever forward, sliding just barely over the peaks of the distant mountains.

The rain continued to fall, even as the thunder died.

--------------------------------------

(**1**) - 'Ms. Jackson' by Outkast. I omitted the second part of the verse intentionally.

--------------------------------------

**The part where Leon is singing Outkast kind of just appeared in there.**

**So? I _like_ Outkast. **

**This chapter was planned long before I wrote it down, with a few minor adjustments. The rest of the story is also planned out, save for the ending.**

**icy descent**- Thanks! The humor is kind of unintentional, but I'm nonetheless glad that you enjoy it.

**The Dark yogi**- Wow, you're the first person to comment on that part! In fact I kind of enjoyed writing the torture part of the last chapter which I think I should feel guilty about.

In response to your question: Faustus is going to kill _everybody_.

What's a yogi?

**Wolf Ravensoul**- I'm flattered. I don't play games anymore, so I'm not too keen on Blood Omen; but

**Dante-Raven****-** Heh heh heh. I'm glad that my work at least inspires _somebody_, considering the sluggish pace in updates here at Fanfic's Diablo.

**Well, that's all the time I have for now; I'm off to start the next chapter. **

**Craziness,**

**-'Zhang'**


	12. Past Lives

**First off, welcome back, to all of my readers, and also to people who are just dropping in because they feel like giving a review for some reason. I am being lazy again and will continue to do so until the end of this semester, so hang in there, and take some time to read some of the other fics in this section.**

**NOTE: Flashbacks within this story may or may not be in chronological order, based on their convenience to the author. Please leave all questions regarding this matter in the form of a review or e-mail. **

**The Chaos:**

**In North Dakota, where obesity rates are some of the highest in the country, some public high schools have decided to add DDR to their physical education curriculums.**

**Just a warning.**

**---------------------------------------**

**Diablo II: Priest of the Dead™**

†

**-12-**

'_Thus saith the Lord, I brought this people out of bondage…'_

He moved like sand, like the wind, cold and chilling by its passage.

'…_and I gave them my commandments by my servants, the prophets, condemning the wicked; whom they would not hear, but despised my counsels.'_

The sounds were so still, in a way so that he could be sure he was not imagining them.

'_Be not ashamed of your hatred, if it compels you.'_

Nothing marked his presence; his footsteps were muffled in the dust of the place.

'_Let not the sun set on your rage, lest it become something permanent.'_

The rain fell upon the flock, forever under the rule of the worshipped be it not for the will to be free of gods.

'_For did I not send three angels to warn Lot to be blind to the fate of the Sod'omites in a night of fire?' **(1)**_

He felt the eyes on him.

'_Did I not put out his eyes for faith in the prophecy, so that he would be spared the vision of his own wife, the form of dead salt?'_

They burned like fire, but he would put them out.

'…_and the priest shall make an atonement for his sin he hath committed, and it shall be forgiven him.'_

The temple is silent, but far from empty.

'_Thus saith the Lord…'_

† † †

In the utter confinement of the crypt, she pulled against her chains, and screamed.

The heat in the humidity was stifling, but it could not compare to the burning in her breast. It froze her from the inside, forcing the air from her lungs; she gasped for breath. She tried to gag; the pain and nausea came and refused to pass, their weight stirring her vision and crushing all sense of dimension. The cold breeze once again brushed against her bare skin.

Lolling her head sideways, she could once again recognize the dangling hooks driven through her elbows; the blood had long since been stifled, but the agony grew only worse. The skin had been cut and peeled with minute precision from the gash running down her neck to her ribs, each tissue examined and catalogued; from between the thin sinews of cut flesh, she could feel her own heart pumping blood, and grew only more intoxicated by its stench.

Forcing her eyes to adjust, she ran her eyes across the stones below her, where lay the broken signs of the surgery, now twisted and decayed, feathers slowly losing their brilliance and crumbling to dust in the depriving shadows. Even now, the loss haunted her, as she tested her feeble limbs and felt only bloodied, hollow sockets where her joints had once held the signs of her divinity; the crude stitches would not hold the continual outpouring of pain. Not any longer.

The pain was at once familiar but no less wracking, coursing instantly through the hundreds of needles inserted precisely into the tissue beneath her skin, small tendrils of silver agony forming a hellish but minutely accurate diagram.

Again her mind faded more into obscurity, clouding with mental screams and feverish panic; her muscles constricted, driving the pins ever deeper into her skin. The feeling was sharp, and then faded into nothing at all. Each faint stab brought back the nauseating memory of the scalpel on her skin; she watched as the scene played again and again before her eyes, cold silver disappearing into her skin and welling up with red, pulling its way across her flesh. What remained of the memories afterwards was exclusively sensory.

In the utter confinement of the crypt, she pulled against her chains, and screamed.

† † †

The priest opened his eyes; in the darkness, they burned with renewed desire, glowing embers rising from the rancid smoke. With each passing moment, he became more adept in the learning of his tutor, the words collected in every drop of the lifeblood that collected at the foot of the stone avatar. The heat of the fires lashed across the scores on beneath his habit, bringing invigoration and feeling; he took it in, as a gift. He could not refuse the gifts of his god.

Again collecting his thoughts, he carefully peeled back the thin membrane beneath the thicker coating of feathers with steel pincers and mentally noted the organic patterns beneath.

'_Muscle arrangement prominently evolved for considerable mass but lower density, reference 3: 17; catalogue; possibly for aerodynamic capability, but with drawback of declining speed. Projected altitude capability is 289.9, at optimal wind conditions, 3 beats/cubic mile; catalogue, _he wrote, the calculations playing out in his mind at their own accord. '_Referencing early hypothesis_, _sparse relation to neural composition of winged vertebrates from mechanical function forward, but undoubtedly warm-blooded; 21 : 3.83; density of frame varies from plastiose to marrow, and possibly from species to species.'_

Carefully removing another feather, he made a shallow cut along the further side of the immense wing, and repeating the process.

_Soon now, _he heard

Within his mind, he could feel the pulsing of the walls as they witnessed the approach of the reanimated avatar; its footprints reeked of hatred and hunger. The air grew noticeably colder as it passed; Von K'orvic held his breath as the icy dread washed over his skin.

_You can feel it your blood._

The priest said nothing, revealed nothing; in the restless silence of the night, he only continued his work.

† † †

In the darkness, the presence of Mephistopheles ceased to be like sand.

With instilled furor, the silhouette leaped from the balcony, his shadow cut to strands and sailing behind his coattails like trails of dark fire.

He lingered for a second in midair; the ceiling heights were unnaturally tall and expansive, and the ground deep below the ancient balcony rail, but came up fast. Logic tells he should have sustained severe bone fracture, or at least paused to regain posture, but instead he did not seem to even regard the ground as he came upon the ledges of jagged ruins, ancient and forgotten, that attempted to be facsimile to stable platform, and failed. Smooth but silent footsteps marked his passage, making across the moss-covered stones and ruptured causeways of the catacombs built millennia ago and miles below ground, devoid of life save for that which it spawned as its own.

Hidden from the eyes of humanity and buried beneath twelve hundred tons of solid foundation, it was a city beneath the city.

Damp and congested air leaked from between the cracks in the foundations, opening up to bottomless pits every which way; occasionally, there would escape a faint, distant moan from each, echoing off the remains of shattered pillars and moss-grown tapestry and multiplying in despair with each. Yet each did not die, but lingered in the weak drafts, a faint hint of madness within the expansive but at once claustrophobic confines.

Here below the feet of the earth, destroyed by time and twisted into shape by the whim of hollow spirits, physical limits were removed, and the shadows, accordingly, took on shapes of their own.

The creatures had come forth in the form of disintegrators, their thick, inflated bodies gleaming a sickly white in the sparse light. They were similar in musculature to gigantic wolves, but the comparison ended at that point; jutting forward from their thick necks, rather than heads, were huge, writhing masses of worms, continually fluctuating over each other in a gross orgy of hunger and waste. Soft, distorted wails barely escaped the absence of mouth, the sounds causing their afflicted flesh to ripple with pain beneath.

Mephistopheles stopped not an inch in his rush through the dense jungle of shattered rock and moss, the intensity of his hatred lighting his way. The stones were the walls of the unnatural maze, but an inner instinct guided him, his eyes never blinking, focusing on the specters in the lucid darkness. The feeling of familiarity tugged loosely at his focus. Even the ruined floors beneath his feet touched something in his past, as he realized there were multiple levels hidden below the rocks, each built one upon the other at different eras, burying the secrets of the lands and binding them to an eternal consciousness; they slept, in anticipation of the day when they would see light again, from the pyres of Hell.

No; he did not _realize_.

He _remembered_.

† † †

_His fury grows stronger, as does his recognition._

He nodded faintly; again, his eye moved across the page.

_This is part of the plan,_ he asked.

_It is._

Reassured, he resumed his concentration.

† † †

His memories grew stronger now, through the dark passages; he could hear the panting of the horrors behind him. They were closer now; even without sight, the shadows knew the paths. There was no definition to their form, but he knew where they were. They slid through the cracks in solid walls to track him; they sprouted gigantic wings and barreled over wide pits. Yet they never truly showed intent to inflict true harm.

They _couldn't_; terror was their weapon.

They were herding him.

The disintegrators again took form, appearing as they ran sideways along the high walls, and flitting back into the shadows and sliding rapidly across the stones; they were like panthers, dark shades transforming into blackened bodies and bleached bone.

Then, they were gone.

The whispers of the night called to him as he leaped among the tall columns, scaling the distance at furious speed. With each leap, a bit of familiarity awakened, and placed together a shattered picture of the mirror that reflected more of a madness with each piece

† † †

_He remembered._

_His hair was as white as the silver stars fallen from moonlight, fitting but altogether unnatural in the arts of necromancy; his eyes, like his mother's, were grey, his gaze empty, yet commanding. _

_They opened in the stark light above him, instantly aware and active to search for some sign of orientation; the chill of the night greeted his skin as he scrambled over to his desk, quill and pen merely faint outlines in darkness. The walls of the temple failed to keep out the coming winter chill, but the air barely stung as his numb fingers fumbled through the pages of folded notes, filled with hasty cross-outs and inkblots quickly wiped away, but not quick enough. His eyes strained to read the words, melding together and stretching to avoid legibility; a few sheets slid off the worn edges, but he did not retrieve them; word, number and theory, corrected and rewritten dozens of times over hours spent within the towering reaches of the university, were useless to him now. All sense of ambition and calculation had been compacted into pure fact, indifferent and unmerciful. _

_Translation gave way to realization._

_In the silence of autumn night, he first understood._

† † †

He remembers so slowly, though, it said. As the ruins waste away, so too does his recollection.

† † †

He slid to a stop on the rubble as, deep and abyssal, they formed. They took the shapes of random images snatched from the nightmares in the air; skeletal berserkers, shambling corpses, cancerous hulks, oozing, rising up from the earth…all stood before him, inflamed by his presence, created solely to challenge the return of the Old God. Their wails filled his ears as they scrambled towards him, not so much an army as a mob. He could smell the stench of the collective mentality, guided by a central will too easily broken.

Kill them. They are not of this place.

Faustus breathed, and carefully shook his head. "It'd be a waste of mana."

This rabble would require minimal effort.

"I didn't come here for them." He said; they were getting closer now. There was no doubt; the creatures were serving their purpose. Whatever had sent them had not expected them to return.

The wraiths arrived first; they dived in, cold smoke trailing from their wings as they passed through the stone and growth. He could see the burning bones within each, loosely alive, like hellish horses of flame.

With familiar step, Faustus leapt from the edge of the stair and grabbed hold of one of the fiery specters; the hellfire leapt from the bones and seared through his gloves, but he pulled himself upwards, planting his boot sharply onto the creature's ribcage. The wraith wailed ever louder and barreled forward recklessly, prompting a chorus of shrieks and yells, as the other wraiths circled and swooped experimentally around him, watching as his fingers clenched the dead bones; the sounds of angry squeals and confused grunts echoed from farther below. He clenched his teeth around shaft of his blade, concentrating yet on the heat, but the flames. From them, he reached within the hollow core of the creature, expertly drawing the fountain of mana from it, leeching its lifeblood as he hung precariously over cold air. The wraith shook, letting out another lifeless screech, and Faustus felt the bones loosen, losing their weightlessness and becoming much more a subject of gravity; with considerable effort, he dispersed the mass of the creature's raw magic and forced it into the dissipating structure of the ghost.

The explosion was deafening; the mass of flaming spirits instantly became a fumbled stream of bone, and then merely a wave of splinters and shrapnel. For a moment, even the shadows recoiled from the touch of light, blinding as it was; as they returned, so too did Mephistopheles. There was barely a second in between, as the ruins were showered in demon blood, warm and venomous, sizzling as it met with the icy stones. In the darkness there was movement, and the bleat of another goat-man, then the quick clashes of metal upon metal, and bones upon flesh.

Faustus barely needed to control his movements; the hollow eyes of the minions blurred as steam trailed past his blade. For him, the seconds seemed to slice themselves evenly into a hundred portions, each becoming a new moment, a new kill. There was no heat within the battle, even as sweat formed on his brow, he felt cold, almost disembodied. Slick steel axes and bloated talons cleaved his flesh again and again as he watched, drawing blood; he screamed, as he should, but he felt nothing.

There were more of them now. Even as his dagger transformed itself into a titan sword, decapitating all manner of demon, still their corpses rose anew, filled again with the same soulless purpose they had possessed before.

Enough.

Blood streaming from dozens of bleeding wounds, he continued; his sword sliced through the same hair and flesh once again, and still the horde converged onto him, pulling, reaching, drowning him in sheer numbers. He felt only a dull ache, but the redness of his vision was disturbing, as he tried to push back, to climb up from the mountain of rotted flesh and blood, gasping air. Soon his careful, precise strokes became wild thrashing, slogging through a tide of thrice-dead horrors like a slow storm.

They are defeated; you must proceed.

It was like walking in deep snow, the very ground pulling at his legs, greedily sucking up blood. Wisps of smoke trailed from his reddened boots, leaving dark footprints that faded, like the mounds of corpses, into the shadows.

The sword slipped from his hand, ceasing to exist.

The dagger appeared once again in its sheath, sleek and silver.

† † †

Amusing; he gives no regard to state his proxy, but still uses the power of this place as we do.

_We must exploit that weakness._

--------------------------------------

**(1)** –Actually, according to the King James version of the Bible, he only sent two, but I'm willing to make exceptions for dramatic effect.

--------------------------------------

**The newly released '_Diablo:_ _Sin War' _novels by Blizzard will likely contradict many of the historic details mentioned in this story. I ask you to suspend your disbelief for the duration of this fiction.**

**However, I also doubt many people will purchase or read those particular novels, since there are much better pickings elsewhere (such as, let's say, in this section of Development:**

**Johann Faustus III **

Despite being a main character, there's really not that much stuff to say about how Faustus was created. When I had typed up a short first draft, I needed a character to act as a living representative of Mephisto, and so I just took the name of the original character from the classic folktale, and added an '-us' onto it. The name 'Johann' has no particular significance.

I like to make things up as I go along; in writing the second chapter, I liked how Dante from _Devil May Cry_ had full-white hair, and so I gave Faustus that trait as well, to emphasize that he's undead. The dagger-transformation tactics he employs came about simply because I couldn't have him walking around carrying a gigantic scythe or sword during his scenes; it would have made him look like a cartoon.

The other thing, though, is his attitude; I'm still not quite happy about the way he turned out as an archetypical anti-hero, like Spawn (who may I add, is _the_ apex of that particular genre). We just have too many of that type of character floating around these days, and most of them are quite forgettable. I need to think up of a new gimmick.

**Peanut-butter & jelly time, peanut-butter & jelly time!**

**(Reviews are answered in order from earliest to most recent.)**

**Dante-Raven-** That's funny, I never really put much effort into development for either of those characters; still, it's comforting to know there are people out there who enjoy my work, so that should help me (and, from what I've read, you) work somewhat faster.

**Wolf Ravensoul**- It's really surprising how my plotlines seem to be similar to almost every other one out there, isn't it? I must admit I'm just as unfamiliar with Blood Omen as you are with Diablo, but as long as you enjoy the story, that's good enough for me:)

**The Dark yogi- **Oh, I definitely _mean_ it, I'm just not sure if I can follow through; you're always _meaning _to do something, but sometimes you just never get around to it. Have no fear, though, reader support is what this story runs on.

Thanks, I'm still working on my torture scenes.

Is Faustus going to kill 'that chick'? Faustus is going to kill _everybody_.

**icee-donut**- Thanks! The humor occurs quite by accident, I assure you; the darkness does not, but I suppose one results in the other…

**Silverscale**- Oh, I will, rest assured.

**icee-donut**- Yeah, excruciating detail is kinda what happens when I get blocked. As you can see, I get blocked **a lot**.

**Dante-Raven-** Since Diablo is not exactly the apex of high literature, I will mercifully answer your questions: Faustus will kill stuff, K'orvic will go through what all villains eventually go through, and Cain _has_ to live, since this is a prequel, and Tristram is still decades away.

I hope that cleared things up a bit. ;)

**Archangel0flust**- Like I said, my style is a mishmash of all styles, which is not at all a good thing; still, it helps to know that I'm not a _complete_ fraud.

**Archangel0flust**- What? Which character? I can't remember that far back…

**Archangel0flust**- There are worse things to be disappointed about, believe me. The plot can be interpreted as pretty much anything, but that should be fixed as I 'draw this story out'. I hope.

**Archangel0flust**- And…here it is!

**The Infection-** Doing better is pretty much all there is to do in writing, right?

**ZOMG! IT'S TEH ZHANG!**- I sure hope not.

**Stitches- **Now, _that's_ just plain-out flattery. I love it.

**Diablo-Lil-Angel**- As far as _I_ can tell, I made at least five, of which I am too lazy to correct.

But…but the first chapter's only three sections long!

**And that's that.**


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